Chaplin in Arabia

Chaplin’s in Arabia

Making a movie

For the sultan

He does his little box

That nobody can see

And plucks his mustache

Like a jester’s jester

Not a gesture left

But only a story

Told through stuck

Communicated via eyebrow

He’ll twitch a lip

The sultan claps

Chaplin rides the wrong horse

And this gets a laugh

Apples are thrown

Where did they get apples?

They have apples in Arabia?
Chaplin doesn’t ask

He can’t

He won’t

There’s nothing

He’s willing

To do

That involves

Speaking up

Chaplin prays

On an old prayer rug

Owned by a man

Who lost everything

He hears the birds sing

The ones kept from flying

In the sultan’s private apiary

Aviary?
Atrium?

Chaplin doesn’t

Know

The words

That he can’t

To entertain

For his own

Lost

Sake

Arabian food

Disagrees with him

Or maybe it’s his nerves

He sits late at night

Wishing

The birds

Would stop chirping

Wishing somebody

Would come get him

Do they know he’s here?

Have they been made

Aware?

Chaplin wants to run

But where to

Why?

He’s in no danger

Provided

He’s as good

As they say

He is

He says nothing

That’s the rub

He conducts a symphony

Made out of rubber

And air

His baton

Not there

His violinist

Just space

The sultan seems angry

Or maybe he’s puzzling

He’s becoming

A puzzle

The audience

Tries to find something

In what

Isn’t there

And in doing so

Renders themselves

Absurd

For trying

For having tried

Chaplin wags his head

And tells his tail

A joke

The tail may like it

But the sultan removes

Himself

From the room

The rug’s rolled up

The candles snuffed

There’s gratitude for the service

But never enough

There’s still so much history

To be had

After that

But Chaplin

As of now

Is in Arabia

With a white white horse

He’s not supposed to ride

And a punchline

He can’t

Deliver