Dance Recital
Five weary, famished men,
Standing in a ragged line
Stare
As she dances
Along the gray stone wall
Of the church
That feeds them
The melody
Of her music
Is not heard,
Or even felt,
Yet
It vibrates
Deep within in the marrow
Of every witness
The men sip their wine
& chant
“Rock it, baby”
She is blind to their stares;
Immune
To harsh thoughts that rattle
Through the caverns of their minds;
The muse
That moves her
Does not
Reside
Among the same gray walls
As the men’s
Hungry vision;
The plucked-from-a-churchyard-yesterday-morning
Forsythia blossoms that garnish her hair
Have wilted;
Yet silently
Her dance continues
As withered petals
Flutter to
The flagstones
At her feet
Church bells
Clatter & clang
Overhead;
The men
Hide their brown bottles
In the linking of overcoats
And troop inside
For their daily meal.
Before an audience
Of fat gray pigeons
Her dance continues.
