I am the entertainment. Special for this occasion,
I don khakis and a paper Krispy Kreme hat.
Crowning glory. Performance study. I get bored,
get born. From hungry and unbuckled in the 
back of an equipment trailer, I emerge sunny into 
the arc, and it feels almost new, this privilege to 
be consciously curated. All wind and wouldn’t 
you like to know, say woman and minority—I 
am encouraged to apply, bearing all 
responsibility for the percussive aftermath. The 
crowd licks donut glaze from their lips. I flash 
my pearl beauties for the photographer and feel 
suddenly with my periphery that my neighbors 
are made of brass. I think the music is dying. 
They’re smiling. I feel the mayor coming with 
his giant scissors.