Last night Chicago broke its larynx into a million little luchador birds
they went flying in all directions across the nation
hooting and hollering full of joy and enthusiasm
a declaration that this shit is fun again
I was sitting on my cat-scratched couch
watching my childhood flash before my eyes
when the luchabirds busted through my living room window
like a quick-moving rainbow, they pecked at the cookie cake crumbs
tangled in my chest hair, their beaks like gymnasium thumbtacks
creeping closer to my heart
then Rey Fenix jumped off the top of the steel cage
during the tag team match against The Young Bucks
it took my breath away and then the one, two, three
the luchabirds carried me outside in celebration
I felt like a kid again, free from the nowhere narrative of everyday life
no mortgage for a moment, no more small voices going to the hospital
I felt free, at long last recommitted to the spectacle of optimism
suddenly I’m wearing a sparkling mask
being dragged through rainclouds over my neighborhood
I pointed at houses sinking in Credit Karma quicksand
one by one we lifted them out of their hopelessness
repositioned them so they could stand stronger in the face of any fall
sometimes it doesn’t take much to feel better
a flock of luchabirds giving you a reason to believe
a reason to fall in love with storytelling again
when there’s a meaningful payoff after years of buildup
a beginning, middle and end and we have never felt
more alive
Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Instagram: the.man.about.town) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright born and raised in Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review and co-editor of the anthology My Next Heart: New Buffalo Poetry (BlazeVOX [books], 2017).