Ventriloquist on an Off Day, Gibson Fay-LeBlanc

Tucked in felt cases, his quiet ones sleep

the sleep of molded plastic—he walks unknown

parks and blocks. Just happy to be here,

he says, bearing the city air: rainwater, soot.

He doesn’t search for better ways to fool

an audience

or an oriole in summer weeds.

so much desire then he could taste a current

scoring the air between his and other bodies.

Once he felt the pull of it he would recall

his hand on a van der Graaf machine at school:

each hair on end.

It’s the same now, except

he leans into the charged fields

with no designs on their end. And still

the arcing current will not dissipate

and beats all day beside his actual heart.