Last Call Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Waiting for the last call of the night,
being drowned out instead by a crowd of
people totally enjoying their time
together - even if they're strangers when
they first start out.

All at once, turning and blaring into space,
inventing new steps in sequence.

Formulating syncopation freely and easily
with no strings being attached.

Waltzing quickly into hallways of retractive
noise.

Collecting the end of misused life