poem « Midnight Hobo

A tip of the toe,
Dares to breach the space.

And muscles aren’t the
Only things tense
In the air that hangs above them.

The tip of the blade
Dares to breach the air

Thin enough to slice
Atoms and serve them on a plate
“A la mode”

Heart-thumps,
Replace drums.

Blowing wind,
Plays like a synth.

While our comrades,two,
Wait for the other to make the first move.

The moon is yet to grow old
And a dance is in the air, tonight

The chain dance;
Where our comrades, two,
Walk around in circles.

The jive;
Where our comrades, two,
Hastily tap towards each other.

The waltz;
Where our comrades, two,
Sidestep each other’s blows.

The tango;
Where our comrades, two,
Cross swords, and tsuba zeriai.

The Fandango;
Where our comrades, two,
Attempt to intimidate each other.

The Flamenco;
Where our comrades, two,
Hope to overpower the other

And Finally, the ballet;
Where one of our comrades plays Odette
In the culminating act, of Swan Lake.

And where the Siegfried doesn’t
Jump into the abyss
With her.

Instead, he plunges his blade
Into the moist earth
And walks away from the battleground

Towards a place where his

Battles, they don’t mean a thing, where
he slices the air, and his sword doesn’t sing.
Where there’s no Odette.

Where there isn’t a dance in the air.

Midnight Hobo