THE THREE GRACES
by John Flynn
Tonight the Marx Brothers. They're indignant and rage.
So complacent they go, eyes wide, with angels.
They engage the declarative sentence like Norwegian
knights turned home. Wardrobed dell'arte moderne
they murder the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.
With black bulbed bicycle horns Harpo honks
like a gaggle of east-bound geese. The brothers
cover their mayhem with impromptu parades
and props only a royal torturer could love.
(A blow torch suttees cigars and singes
every moustache on the screen save one.)
Steaming coffee cups appear like magic saucers
from a mother ship. A menagerie…of which
less said is better. Nothing is left to chance. Yet
chance prevails. What are the chances of that?
~ previously published in Lost Highways and Living Rooms