Grand Slam Night

the lights are low
you can see the sweat beads
bathing his face like a lizard’s tongue
the crowd is standing on its feet
screaming, dancing, whistling
stomping their feet to the tune
of a marching band

he’s gyrating his hips
making love to the mike
his words are thunder
lightning bolts appear from nowhere

the poems are burning in his hands
the crowd is screaming for more
he’s running up and down the aisle
reciting the ten commandments backwards

he’s back on stage doing acrobatics
the audience is spellbound
the judges are frantically writing
down their scores

he’s standing on his head
he’s trying to raise the dead
he’s brought in the Pope for a duet
the guy waiting his turn
looks white as a ghost