My muse deserts me
in the chilled booth
of a roadside café.

I call to her,
and she turns around,
smiles, and sweeps into night.

Wait, I sigh,
as she reaches the road
and a pickup bends to twirl her away.

dear dancer
with chin tipping poise,
stay to laugh at me again.

Why must you tend away,
always float, roll, or flitter beyond,
leaving a hollow thought
and a hazel imprint of your eyes
on my forehead?

And why do I blame you,
buoyant one,
for the smear your feet leave
on my ground-bound heart
as the last swig of coffee cools in my mug?

      –joel short


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Valediction by Joel Short is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.