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THE DEAD CAT WALTZ
 
Tick, tick, tock.
Fleeing the dancing cats.

Oh those strangled cries, the pleas for help.
Where are the sirens to drown them out?
I'm no hero, just another suspect,
now that the circus is coming to town.
Slipping out of earshot or pretending not to hear,
I fear the knowledge.
This is not why I am here.
Let them suffer alone, if not in silence.
 
I loved her once. How could I not?
She topped the table barefoot in salvation's uniform,
slinking and swirling to that haunting melody
of planets yet to be, of future history.
She danced the dance the dead cats dance.
I delighted. She ignited.
She grew ready to explode,
as she showed, to me alone, the Dead Cat Waltz.

Tick, tick, tock.
The circus is in town.
 
I've been taught the sky is blue,
but even then a storm can brew in your shoe.
Mother will still love you,
ready to re-sole the eventual hole
your desire to soar wore in your shoe.

But my teachers had never seen
the hollow hero a man can come to be
caught between the writhing
of the broken-legged circus march and the dancing cats
where the long street ends
under the pyritic triumphal arch.
 
All I sought in that little garden green
were a few points more to add to my score,
to burnish my sheen,
to stand among the men with hats, hard core.
I promised not to forget her when the long street called.

Now I know that road twists and turns
not like a vine; the street is serpentine!
It never forks, there are no branches,
just the path to its end.

Tick, tick, tock.
The clock has stopped.

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