It’s a terrible entertainment.
In solemn gloom, breathless,
concealing our morbid curiosity,
we rest our fingers on the plastic sled
waiting for its impulse.
“What will our leaders do?”
It moves. Surprised, suspicious, our eyes
meet others, see more surprise, more suspicion.
Not me, eyes say. You? Them? It must be them.
With mysterious deliberation the sled slides
on felt feet where we all dreaded, all knew
it would go.
“Who’s pushing this?” “I’m not.” “Not me.”
“Well, someone is.” “Spirits.” “Do you believe that?”
We all withdraw our hands, but there it sits: