I never could high-kick
words were my tap-shoes
but I know these dancers:
ecstatic routine masking terrors
of keeping on spot in the line,
self on the line; raw yearning,
stripped, on the line
those who hurt most
departing stage left
in the husk of a grueling day
the one on the floor
silently screaming
felled by a faithless knee
Where do they go
what cold meal in a cold flat
their destination
disappointment
the price of dreaming
the awful question
When I can’t dance
hanging like gallows from the flies.
