April
by Cornelius Eady


Suddenly, the legs want a different sort of work. 
This is because the eyes look out the window 
And the sight is filled with hope. 
This is because the eyes look out the window 


And the street looks a fraction better than the day before. 
This is what the eyes tell the legs, 
Whose joints become smeared with a fresh sap 
Which would bud if attached to a different limb. 


The legs want a different sort of work. 
This is because the ears hear what they’ve been waiting for, 
Which cannot be described in words, 
But makes the heart beat faster, as if 
One had just found money in the street. 


The legs want to put on a show for the entire world. 
The legs want to reclaim their gracefulness. 
This is because the nose at last finds the right scent 
And tugs the protesting body onto the dance floor. 
This is because the hands, stretching out in boredom, 
Accidentally brush against the skirt of the world.