Comedy Anthems

The note said: Bring a snack. Be home by 8.
A mountain opens at the garden gate.
We check our coats above a molten floor.
The host says, Shoes off. Nothing more.

A sweater has reserved a 2nd chair.
Its owner’s chin is living somewhere there.
A sheep arrives. He recognizes the stitch.
His grandma made the collar. Now she’s rich.

The bus pulls up. The bass disturbs the plates.
A child in chrome decides who gets backstage.
5 crackers buy a better place in line.
The juice is apple, vintage half past 9.

A pig sells pictures of his former sty.
We ask to see the mud. He asks us why.
The sandbox wants investors, not a spade.
The children say the adults may be paid.

We ask for dinner. Justin brings a bid.
The soup costs more than all our schooling did.
A guard protects the fruit against the wall.
A small brown spot has clearance past them all.

The sushi chef is listening to a boy
explain the only meal he would enjoy.
No cheeseburger? He considers this.
A hamburger. The chef adjusts a dish.

The grown-ups offer futures, funds, and shares.
The boy would like a burger. No one dares
admit, with all this capital at hand,
the kitchen cannot meet this 1 demand.

Bryan brought a shake as green as lawn.
We find him near the cake. The shake is gone.
A mushroom opens rooms beyond the room.
He asks if there are biomarkers for zoom.

The birthday candles shrink from Megan’s face.
The thermostat resigns and leaves the place.
Our host looks down into the lava lake.
Perhaps outside is cooler. Bring the cake.

A sports car sobs beside the parking stand.
Its owner chose a woman with a plan.
A rose-matte truck arrives; the cameras slide
past all that steel to Kindly Myers inside.

2 guests are made of light. We check them in.
One buffers halfway through a practiced grin.
The other’s banned. She shines across the floor.
The bouncer tries the lock once more.

The room expects a pose. She brings a book.
A 6-fingered hand gives everyone a look.
She checks her nursing notes beneath the light.
The champion who drew it says, Not quite.

LeBron has brought a putter. Someone cheers.
The cup we kept for tips soon disappears.
A coach requests his quarter from the bank.
We offer him a wallet. He looks blank.

The roast of Cyan scarcely clears its throat
before the insults turn into a toast.
Then Justin’s told his fortune is a shame:
just 10-odd billion underneath his name.
We pass a hat to help him through the night.
The boy puts in a cracker. Seems polite.

A ruler comes with experts and a feed.
The floor must first be level. All agreed.
We measure 1 man’s height while, near the stairs,
the sweater quietly acquires more chairs.

Past midnight, founders gather round a screen.
Their coffee has replaced their bloodstream.
An old idea climbs out of its grave.
Before it speaks, 3 people press Save.

Santa scans the cookies by the door.
The reindeer need a software patch once more.
A robot asks if there is protein left.
The nursery has reported cracker theft.

The little circle will not all fall down.
They’ve picked up Humpty, found a spare gold crown.
He sits among the crumbs, a little cracked.
Nobody asks him for their crackers back.

We say goodnight. The mountain splits in 2.
The valet asks which planet we are due.
The sweater needs a vehicle alone.
The boy asks if there’s drive-through on the way home.

We dim the stars. We put away the cake.
The baby and its shareholders stay awake.
Its crib has cleared the atmosphere. Below,
we sing the little song we used to know.

The rockets rest. The trading windows close.
The sheep has fallen gently into doze.
We reach the hush where lullabies should stop.

The baby lifts a finger.

From the top.