Last Performance at Three
Sits there in the darkness, swozzle in his throat, says, 'That's the way to do it' Well, perhaps it was, the day before he missed the boat while in the tented silence the Crocodile sheds tears that no-one has believed in in an age of Policeman's years and Punch is beaten to it by the telly and the game and the sausages are pizzas as they wait to catch the plane where three hours distance brings them other suns and other lands while here the wind just blows away the voices in his hands. In the quiet, Punchinello's laughter hammers like the rain and the sounds of clapping children are missing from his brain and the Crocodile, of sausages, has had more than his share and the Policeman fits onto his hand as if he wasn't there now Judy's in Marbella with the sunshine in her hair as she spends his last pesetas on the waiter, working on her tan she never sees the darkness in The Punch and Judy Man
In the patter of the falling rain With the deftness of an age, and the silence of an empty hand, a curtain draws across a stage and in the shadow of an aching pier he packs them all into a van into their separate little boxes just as proudly as he can then drives along the seashore without ever looking round In case he sees a child there waving and his throat will make no sound and as he opens up the window to drown the voices in his head the shower of the rain stings like applause he once thought dead but now his smile is fixed and wooden, solemn, Punchinello grim, and as he dreams his lives of puppets feels their hands inside of him and as they turn his head to see that plain expanse of sand, You can hear the heart fall handless inside The Punch and Judy Man
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