The Failed Dance Poem by Daniel Brick

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'.