It’s clear we like our trampolines taut and ready
to dump our dumb asses into the nearest thorny hedge.

We like to watch ourselves mugging it up, big hams,
strutting our stuff, then falling down a flight of icy stairs.

We do it on purpose because we fear
we might grow too proud without the occasional crotch shot.

So consumed with our antics, practical jokes, dopey dogs
chasing their own tails that we can barely hold the camera still.

The toddlers who molest our windows are darling.
They don’t yet understand the transparent pane of glass.

Cats. We must have cats. Lots of them, defying nature
or gravity, falling or flying toward their unsuspecting prey.

We use each other as piñatas. We set our blushing brides
on fire. Even the minister can’t contain himself.

It doesn’t take a genius to know the hockey puck,
a 70 mph insult, will find its way to the softest spot.

It’s so funny, or will be, the broken noses, jammed fingers,
swollen testicles—just give us money and time.

We can’t imagine the world wouldn’t love us,
our hilarious fat rears stuck in lawn chairs, our slow children

ramming their heads over and over into chain-link fences.
Look! Look at the small dog pissing on the big dog!

We want so much for it to be finally worth something.