In forced laughter
a noticeable weight
my knees, buckle
my belt, stretches
my shoes, sopped in sweat
my biceps, twitch
my mouth, crushes to crease into a mimic-fashion resembling a smile.
I question every answer,
or rather, would they question me?
I can frame my view
in a comic frame or two
depicting text of an easily gotten joke matched over a still face of an actor, someone important.
And i got this itch
i can’t scratch
on a limb that’s not mine
a phantom, stretching
a picking up of scraps of a memory I claim to think I don’t understand.
Oh, what a time to be alive.