No, not my parents. The ones I look down upon.
The crackheads doing the jitterbug next to the EZ check.
Their happiness inexplicably contingent on the next score of smack.
Acoustics of the autumn wind echo low on cobblestone
as slender bodies tangle in a macabre of white lighting.
Someone once told me dance is a demonstration of the soul. Jaded
and beaten it can still be whole with pseudo-solutions.
Like drugs or money or sex or food or music or art or poetry
or dance. They don’t mean anything, so aren’t they nothing? No,
not the words from the list. The fallen leaf from the maple tree
that is crushed under the weight of my feet. Someone once told me
gardening is edification for the soul. Just and merciful are the toes of God.