A Face On A Stage Poem by James McLain

The music is not, can can, is a duplicate of some
lost fantasy, caught in lights.many assets, you float
outside fast poles- through it, to find it, it eyes fight,
the heavy curtain of youth, lifted to reveal, some of
and the birth of it.shiny textures, glow healthy, hands
help from no where, parts are hatched, little are they
to us, it's brown, it lings..you fan her, each reaches to
lift anew, plump ankles to guide apart, new music
is gathered in your bowls, as white hubbies, in pink.
the Queens, gathers us, you, me them watching, up
even without tickets, some others, few new found a
wet hand in it, your show, your parts, exposed, some
dance in powdered air, to run in her front, out the back.
three, four, take pictures to record, derrieres paused,
to expel pent up breath once caught and never seen.