A Dance to the End of Life

Ensconsced in a dismal haze

of velvety grey smoke,

impenetrable, inscrutable,

fingers twitching, twitching

to the shrill staccato bleating

of the lovelorn black piano;

black coffee wilting, shrinking;

sugar crystals skittering, disillusioned,

across the knife-loved table-top

to land at her bustling feet, as she sat

and chewed on the ends of her soul.

A two-step, a foxtrot, an idiot waltz

all occupied the sawdust dance floor.

Couples closed upon each other like clams,

swimming lackadaisically in the stinging

of her bitter, bitter, melancholy gaze.

Jittery, skittery, fidgety, went her feet -

let us dance to the end of love!

Let us whirl into despondent dolor,

discover unhappiness uncharted,

and sink through the lugubrious quagmire

of unrequited love, unremitting heartbreak!

Bitter ash of cigarettes sprawled on virgin cotton -

tainting, tormenting, destroying -

a permanent penumbra in a sunkissed grove.

Leaky roses mate with thawing lemons,

bleeding, melting, merging

into one sweet puckered mouth.

She extends her own as kisses are exchanged,

slowly, slowly, sweet with ardent promise,

but, through her own dejected haze,

she cannot see there is no place here

for spinster lips and empty arms.

No place indeed for jittery, skittery feet

unschooled in idiot waltzes.

Dispel the haze and welcome become

to your fair share of loving idiot lovers!

Oh, to dance, to dance, that idiot waltz!

Love is but a ceaseless cycle of

fertile hearts and barren rewards,

of black cigaretted coffee

undrunk to jangling piano tunes

in dark impassioned cafès:

a dance to the end of life.