DEAD TREES Once they were the life, dancing under twinkling balls and wearing their best gold.
They hugged you like a Queen embracing a leper and you wanted to sniff their most secret places, make them sigh with your red tongue.
They were "cute"-- slender, chiseled, and muscled-- the color of coffee, the color of sand, and if they had a dimple, Lord, lord, say no more.
Now they are silent. the eyes once lighted are dimmed. They still come to this place, pulled by their lust to live and hear the music, to not die.
In this place, where they made their minor histories, they stand to themselves like old discarded props.
They have a new DJ in this place who in his dazzling white coat and Bunsen Burners for eyes calls out, "Divas to the Dance Floor," but the divas are rooted like old dead trees.