She dances in the dark spots
Between the street lights, like
A patient drunkenly twitching
Before an operation,
There is but a lick of anxiety
In her performance, deprived
Is she by her cruel audience, but
To their defence
They are merely the empty foliage
That sit on each side of the city lane,
Like shadowed guards
Who gleefully imprison her in chains,
Where will she go
After the moon retires and
The trees offer her the key ?
Perhaps, she will follow the stray cat
Down the dimly painted alley, will
She give in to the ***** feline, who
Beckons her with a fickle whine
And who stares obtusely
With such precise baby-doll eyes,
Or will she simply sink
Into the leaf smothered ground,
Face anchored and stitched
To the pavement, her beauty
Famished and her heart envious
Of the four-pawed beast
Who now dances on her corpse.
