Dog Ends In Disneyland Paris

On the outskirts of Paris, in the pastel hued shade
of Sleeping Beauty’s palace, I imagine Goofy
takes his head off, after the parade, to smoke
a Gauloise out of sight of punters and the gaze
of his supervisor. He is required to dance and caper,
to pose for photographs, to wave at tourists
and to endure the sticky embrace of children,
the frightened screams of babies, the scorn of teenagers
scuffing round bored and insouciant. He sweats
beneath the cartoon skin, the fixed and gormless grin,
while he yearns to give a gallic shrug, to imply
that everyone should bugger off. Sometimes, he sighs;
a pffft of deflation, a garlic fart, in which he stews
behind blank manic eyes, pupils huge and black
as existential despair. Would Sartre find it too absurd?
Would Proust have written ‘Apres Tout, C’est Un Monde Petit’?
Would Lautrec have painted him amongst prostitutes?
He stubs out his covert fag, then proceeds to drag
a piano along the concourse for an impromptu concert
and resumes his costumed role as an Andalusian dog.