The crazy woman
who makes airplanes
with her spastic arms
as she strolls
through Midtown
notices neither traffic
nor heat.
The rest of us make way,
of course we do,
not wanting to be caught
in her propellers
or seen.
We laugh. Yet,
there is underneath it the
supposition that
perhaps this woman
is happier than we are.
It's a disquieting thought
here in the middle
of things,
with the noise, the bright-
ness, the endurance.
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