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.
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.
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