Whitton in the Sun

A bridge describes itself

Amongst Whitton in the sun,

But the wheels continue to roll

And I have no time to investigate

Or understand the real arc.

There are words to suggest surrounding

But we are charging through

At terrible pace.

And I have no time to read

The lines

Of Whitton in the sun.

The Neuroses of the Joker

Would they find it funny,
I wonder?
I long to feel their gales of laughter,
wash over me, like a blanket,
of mothers' love.
Would it be cutting too close,
to the proverbial bone?

I chance my arm.
'A paedophile raped him and he got AIDS',
I chirp, pointing.

Silence.

The victim's mother is horrified.
The school talent show may not have me back.