This Old House

This old play house, is full, while the long nose men, wave in there trunks. You gaze far out into the ocean of trunks, miles, of thick trunks. That smile you show is what they all come to see. Bodies of men, singular, except for the trunk, hot breath on you. Reaching out to you, by your seat, it plucks you as the peanut from the earth inside you to loam. Trunk, miles of truculent trunk, those hairs, the nose) it(s grasp the meaning in the one sleeve, that smells, rose scent on you. Just as quickly, reaching out with this the trunk on you, back inside, the seat, your moon it's fame you cannot hide, from them. Your husband calls your name, Your ticket in your hand, almost punched... If looks could fill and you had his trunk what could you do, would you but wave it, as they do at you.......?