"Night after night

   I danced on dynamite"

                             Ai, "James Dean"

 

Another gray sunset and I've outlived David Bowie

and most of those boys who danced on dynamite,

though I hobble around on feet that were never that agile,

in shoes that never sparkled.

​

When I shop for new threads, though, I still

find myself caught between my Amish ancestors in their

chambray, suspenders, straw hat, and Ziggy Stardust

in his frippery. That's the dilemma in a world

​

where I can dial up tunes for a disco ball

while resting on a chair built by a distant cousin

who still works by lantern light.

I could have gone one way or the other, I suppose,

shouting out my life or holding the reins of a draft horse.

​

Either was a mountain onto itself, though, so I chose the valley

in between, and on a night like this the fog settles on me

so quietly I cannot mark the moment when I disappear.