The Comedian Jim MacGeorge
(To hear Shelley recite this poem, click here.)

He comes to us aslant, like a man
uninvited, a good ear forward, lolling eyes
downward, a mouth at ease in a distantly
remembered smile. He stands to hear
his turn, drooping like a sunflower.

By the velour he walks his wait, turning
in the draping dark: to here, to there and back,
as if chasing down his whispers, as if prying
upon himself, as if dancing to last night's laughter.
Now, abruptly he is still, and he braces to hear
his name.

He goes to the light, to the stage, as if without
intention, as if wary of the floor, as if weighing
a knock on a door so as to sell a brush
bravely while hoping there is no answer.
Yet, with wise eyes beading, he is opening
his case.

Lines crack like Astaire's torpedoes, cannonades
of sudden laughter; the stage is a jubilant
realm as he peoples his court with kings' voices,
with each jut of the jaw or the lip, new face after
face familiar. Now, shuffling with foxy grace,
he smiles to his applause.

He comes off as a man home from work, seeking
a place for his cap; his still lolling eyes held wide,
surprised by the grip of new darkness. In the quiet
he loosens his waist, perhaps ponders
a moment that failed, then, recalling his
laughter he stands, drooping like a sunflower.