You are my laughing phoenix,
I am yours.
Our cackling woke the dead.
Endlessly we cracked jokes
waiting for the fire engines (not red)
to arrive. 

No, wait!  Hurry!  Get back
inside.  Let the smoke
choke us out of five hundred years’
worth of played-out puns.
Six hundred too many Arabian nights
have us cracked up under the moon. 

Reduced to ashes, we could ask to be blood-red,
winged beauties next to one another
drying feathers forever in the desert. 

But you would not reinvent yourself
with me.  For me,
the ashes scatter irreverently.  For you,
tradition’s fire in the belly burns
as  you wait for ladders and hoses. 

Dry as the skin of wakened dead,
the puns will reduce me
to tears for five hundred or so
more years.  Unless, of course,
you weren’t my last,
laughing one.