Nile Dancing
Something warm,
a chance to speak
among the oppression
of otherness.
The strain of welcome,
glaring - into the room
where we’d danced -
the memory - oh lord no -
awakened in the worn
floorboard - sweat-smells
and vodka. Learning to
be strong. Learning
to hold our tongues,
and our guts,
where once we partied
long and hard and happy.
Time, yet slower -
we drift somewhere else.
I chose not to speak.
Instead, awaiting
the nod of consent
that those around me
withhold - happy to:
my grey having spoiled
twice t'utterness of golden
share among 'peers.'
We are lifeboats to the
common drifters,
the stevedores on holiday,
gifted cruises,
how clueless.
We stand up -
finally braver than
years before,
the hands, the mouths.
The shaking.
United in the
thirst. The thing
we all want to do.
Dying. How artful.
We are jealous of silt,
nile dancing,
so engulfed in its
addiction.
We are three-weaks,
week-end,
intentional tired -
so that we may fall
blissful before
the urge returns.
We are bird-watchers,
quietly noting the
freedom we covet.
"This weight is
not unbearable."
It is his third day.
It is his third day.