The Dead Cat Waltz

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.