Upstaged. A Drop. Down. Poem.

You've painted the greatest paintings since Lascaux. You've built the world’s most spectacular bridge. You've written the greatest novel ever. You've landed the world's loveliest lover. You've found the cure for a rare disease. You've won decathlon gold at age forty. You've found a trail to a hidden treasure. You've composed the most profound symphony. You've built the bonniest bridge since Brooklyn. You've acquired the portfolio of your dreams.
So now what? That strange fellow still accosts
you from his pinned-down perch upon a cross.
It’s uncanny. Impossible even.

It reminds you of that burlesque gag where
the target girl is pinned down through her blouse
with the first blade and when the knife thrower
turns his back to pick up the next, she Houdinis
herself out and kicks him in the rear
end. She then wiggles back into her blouse,
sorta. He doesn’t notice. Anything.

And when the final knife is thrown and he turns to the crowd
for his applause, she slips out again, tiptoes toward the pit,
points to her exquisite downstage bottom, and mouths
“Kiss it.”