of musical chairs. Walking in circles
to the beat of the phonograph
as you paint on a smile and roll
out the laugh. But the music

stops. And you haven’t found
a sweet spot. So, the next time
the needle drops into the groove
you are removed, like an object

in photoshop. He crops you
out of the picture. You hang back
and see all these girls chasing
a seat. You used to be one of

them. He used to call you his gem. But now
he has more than he can hold. Now that
it's late and he's growing old. His circle
is smaller. Now the girls he's keeping

wear tight collars. He conducts pitch
and sound. Raising them to the sky
like Moses. Plucking them like roses,
till their toes curl. Who'll be the last girl?