There is some demon turning me into an old man,
Living like a tapeworm in my gut
Turning me into a snowman,
Of cleaned-up Fingernails and shaving cream,
While somewhere in the life I forgot to live
An old rapscallion banjo sleeps with dust.
I’d like to take that banjo to my job
And sit-cross legged, strum and strum
And wake those rigid people into dancing.
Those white men so white their smiles are like water.
Those camouflaged men who cruise
Around each other like soft battle ships.
I’d like them to remember their bare feet,
The bite of dust and sun down country roads,
The face they forgot to desire,
Now carved and wrinkled as a peach pit.
There is some other game for me.
Another reality could walk in anytime, and become boss,
Shouting: Dance! Dance! Dance!
Dance through the partitions!
Dance through the stairwells, envelopes, telephones!
It’s hard to know which life is sleep
Or where the door is with my name on it.