Song

      You keep poking at it
finger, drill, snout & awl
till you find yourself at the back
      of the shed
flush against some wall

Sing the song of homing
sing it once more
     con brio
as the bright wind whips
the banners and shiny foil

        —Are you an Ex-is-ten-tial-ist,
Mr. Mister?

         —0, no, no,
I would prefer to think

 of myself, ahem, 
as a Collision-Ecstasist,

        — You undress on impact,
sir?
        —0, hohohoho,
not no more.