our improv

we’d make a good improv show.
I speak fast, you cut me off with something
I didn’t expect to hear.
the audience is stunned, backs away.
it’s a car crash of words and careless use of the lines
its done, its over.
over my dead body your soul says.
over mine too.
its witty, and barbed. it hurts.
we laugh. silence punctures our test-tube
of laboratory rat juice, and sludge soup
or everything hateful and wrong.
and we’re still poking, well after class went home
smoke in our face.
it’s a mess.
its so un-staged, no one charges for tickets
but yet they keep coming back..
the audience of friends and onlookers,
just as we seem to spend the week apart
yet wind up there
with something else to say
something else to try on.
just to parlay, to dance, to play then ditch
to unpick, unthread, rip apart, re-stitch
run, walk, abandon, pick up.
we’re always on our feet.
fists clenched, in orgasm
if not anger.
and just as relieved when its not over.
and we’re not through