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We Should Probably Thank the Dance Itself

a short poem about an invitation to embark

Photo by Florian van Duyn on Unsplash

One Hundred Days of Gratitude. Thirty-eight.

Following the railroad tracks
laid into the dance floor
and the engines in each foot
steam pumping out his eyes

back sure and strong as a railroad spike

— as Detroit steel —

as the real music
and real whiskey
shoveled in and burning bright.

He pulls up to you
pulls the breaks
dressed in the night

a smile
a nod
a ticket

catches the light.

next stop: never
forever in flight.




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