His were dancer's feet,
not meant to walk such empty streets.
His graceful hands
now freeze around a bottle drained of good intent.
Eyes which once looked up
in theatres full of adoration,
now stare down at shoes
with holes which let all hope drain out.
That choreography of lament,
the shuffling, aching bones and leaden limbs,
shoulders hunched in grief,
from carrying no weight of love.
His pavement stage
and gutter stalls are full of litter.
His critics now the passers-by who frown
and disapprove or throw a coin and not a rose.
But in his head,
applause lives on, his food of choice,
and as he fades into his cardboard home,
his dancing heart gives up the beat.
Final curtain. No encore.
I am applauding. A touching poem.
ReplyDeletePoignant and beautiful imagery and phrasing. I particularly like 'a bottle drained of good intent' and 'shoulders hunched in grief / from carrying no weight of love.'
ReplyDeleteVery moving Virginia. Thank you for sharing this with us.
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