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Becoming What You're Called |
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by Lyn Lifshin
some nights, lets say
last night, halfway across
the dance floor could
have been Ethiopia,
the moon. Until I was
wine an alcoholic
drooled for,
chocolate some
diabetic couldn't
refuse. No matter I
am not the beauty I
might have been, the
dancer no one
can resist. Those
poems about ballroom
could be marijuana,
someone he once
dreamed of on a night
of crack. Some one
he's a little wary of,
a little unsure but
nothing intrigues
him now |