Swatting back and forth
Posturing menacingly
Flying magic swords
Remembered tempo and feel
Departed master’s fighting hands

In black tie and shrouds
an audience crowds
into seats beneath bone candelabra.
They’ve come here to view
a rare pas de deux
known as the real Danse Macabre.

Prom 1965
My hair was sprayed
So high gloss
It looked as if it had been painted shut.

When my mother wasn’t looking,
I’d open the pages and find the one
with Lowly the Worm holding that
cupcake, and I’d apply pink tongue
to pink cupcake. You’d think I’d have
been disappointed, but, deep within,
I located the flavor of strawberries,
and maybe a hint of lemon, topped with
whirls of cream.

My steel-wheeled ride to work is human-dense
No ropes, but by our corpses tightly bound
We’re hanging suits, we’re pickets in a fence
Too close to breathe, we whisper not a sound