The Failed Dance

In this dance we drag our feet, it's become little more than a way to avoid stumbling. Where are those graceful moves we so admired when we watched Fred and Ginger sweep across polished floors? We look to YOU to give the signal that will save us, but you whisper, 'Fond hope', and turn your back to the growing crowd of viewers. We're out of sync, it's a mess, and yet no one complains. Some even applaud, but - for what I cannot tell, unless it's the welcome silence of our performance. Or is viewing failure itself the main attraction? I'm afraid to ask, afraid to break the silence, especially if the answer proves to be ambiguous, puzzling to all. My fellow dancers suddenly abandon our measures, leave at once, no ceremony else, no last word of encouragement. I am really alone now, standing in an empty place, recovering my uncertain sense of balance as best I can. Nearby in a stunted hedge, a song-bird provides hesitant music. I stand very still, trying not to scare him off, clutching against my chest, my only known book, ILLUMINATIONS by Rimbaud. I will wait here on this abandoned dance floor, by the hedge and the song-bird until one of the locals finds me, comes close to me, pointing to the book, and whispers, 'Read from it out loud'.