It’s a little past the golden hour, here at the moment of long toothed sun and tree clutched sky. The crows call out their signs and affiliations, setting to assembly. The usual suspects take their stations, traffic darting in dots and dashes, time and destination no doubt part of some grand code. All I get is belted by the sounds of indignant engines and waves of drive by bass. The heavens are painted straight down the bandwidth. Rumors all that I have to go on, and even the rumors won’t reach me here.
You can read it in the settling of ashes. You can see it in the gossiping stars. Any beat the feet will follow. Any wings sent to sweep you away. The great ball reels whether lover or dancer, the dance takes no prisoners. The show ever and always going on. Only I never had a dance card like Leonard’s, a wallflower from three walls over. I stumbled through the chorus line, here and there a solo or maybe giving some diva a lift. Mad for the theatrics but wrong for the role, I stuck to warm up work, and busking well away from the venue. My notices are poor, and few.
Inured to the outside, I’ve turned for the worse. I can’t seem to keep a heart, or work the words well enough to get a clue. Haunting these passages through the shadows, watching the numbers as they wane, steeped in the oblivion of the conversations had. I thump along without a partner, I spin along with the tireless skies and the fickle seasons, love the only reason and it shines so now that all reason has gone. The years fly away while the days plod on, the ringing of the rhythm through the empty of the room. All that I want there is no waiting for, all that I have this waltz hanging from my neck.
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