Dance with Dave from Issue 58/59
He’s wearing the cocoa corduroy pants
and lemon sweater, the lilac muffler, hair
sheared close to his head. “It’s a question
of restitution,” he notes, hand
at his chinㅡwe pause, people funnel past
on the sidewalk. “I never saw a man
so abuse his reflection.”
Dave is insane, but plays
an admirable normal. Back
and forth you go about acid rain.
humdrum effluvium, then like
the dust-sweet toy from the cereal box
comes this talk of reflection, the Duck
Police, sawdust, Miss Crawford County.
And weather permittingㅡwoman or manㅡ
he asks you to dance. Right there
In the courtyard or park, at Bi-Lo,
the video store: “Dance with Dave?” he’ll cry,
suddenly bobbing, or if his vertebrae hurt,
flailing arms and head only.
Much as you’d like to, you don’t.
Why scape on your knees to Eau Claire
when buses are running? Besides,
You’d look dumb in your tie. You stand there.
Dave can dance for you, while the moon,
that pale pockmarked old lady,
stays put in the sky.