poems

DISCO BALL

We were dancing, the whole group of us –

it was dark but for the laptop and the circuitry of light

in everyone’s eyes, and there was a moment

when flesh gathered practically in midair,

ascendant on Prince or Petty or Pretenders,

and I just went ahead and wondered

if the Resurrection might look like

some such when it finally happens, no longer

a matter of words aflame on the hallowed page

or a rumored hallucination debated forever but

a shimmying across a big room somewhere,

or outside under sycamore and storm of starlight,

but either way using materials at hand,

a real earth where each vintage body and agile soul

is keeping time, counting it down

and letting it go, with a disco ball hanging high

under the support beam from a real nail.

 

© copyright 2019 Ray Waddle