at the tea dance

the on/off button is finicky
static electricity rustles
like a rusty waltz stuck
in repeat mode on the treadmill
of time, a distended space walk
like old-timers shuffling
under artificial moonlight
with silver duck topped canes

there is no entry in my dictionary
for this sad non-evolving
revolution called old age…

refusing these sunday afternoons
of boa feathers and glittering glass beads
I excel in my ostrich role, an insignificant
gopher, whose only prediction is whether
the sunlight will endure long enough
for me to peruse my future
looking timidly through the eye
of a broken telescope



at the tea dance
[2009.17.5…b]

Written for the Writer’s Cramp
Words bolded are the prompts...