Bells and Whistles
Jingle jangle went her wrists,
jangle jingle rang the rings that swung from bell-roped ears.
Unless she shook like a tambourine, she could hardly be seen.
When in motion Bodhrán drums and pursed wind-blown pipes
marched upright, legs as stiff as Irish dancers.
Maybe fairies danced in her eyes, or maybe drunken dodgem cars?
Something was turning and bumping,
something was walking and talking, jangling, and jingling
upon a nervy trampoline of being.
Though fascinatingly thrumming with the sonics
of a madcap Calle band she failed to transmit, nor fit,
as if she had shaken free of the crowd to be this
jiggling skeleton key seeking any keyhole of attention.
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