Dancers

DANCERS

He says we’re being paid to wait, in a way – not to worry, like it’s some kind of duty. Not like we’re fighting for a cause or something. But we’re getting paid, alright. The money must be coming from somewhere; those diamonds he pins through his middle-aged ears must be coming from somewhere. I feel safe for all but eight minutes of my nine-hour day – those eight minutes when an orgy of couriers and suits descends upon the small warehouse and I lose my voice and the lights become bright like I’m back in that interrogation room. Brown paper parcels passed from leather gloves to bare palms and across the room towards the keep-this-door-closed-at-all-times. Then a busy dance of money in tightly-packed envelopes and they roll out under a closing door. Deep breath, french press; push down slowly. Profound beauty in the smallest things. Takes a while to get back on my feet and the day goes on.

(Written in 2011, at a train station somewhere)

All writing is copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others’ work.

Our Finest Hour

OUR FINEST HOUR

Crippling hope
left to swell
just above
the undergrowth
of mangled tape
(or private hell)

Of simple tunes
with tangled songs.
took a run,
a final ditch
pretend to care
for everything

Pretend to speak
in sorry tones
a tense that does
all that’s required
of it, and we
would spend a night
both swept and slept
through damp heat dreams
of broken air
conditioning

The finest lungs
could not inflate
in time, enough
to overcome
the passing train
or hurricane
with any words,
or cries, or yells

(Written in Florida, April 2013)

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others’ poems.