Last Dance?



Circumspect they leave their car,

unsteady feet, attentive hands.

Heads close as milongueros.


Bright sun sprays kisses, never felt,

through a fog of shared concern.

A leaden tempo suits their dance.


Her hand grips rail, her elbow held.

Tense shoulders meet and balance,

as slow steps reach a fateful door.


I follow in the wake of pain

and sit nearby, aware, empathic.

No blether fills their waiting.


The doctor comes and calls a name.

She stands slow, when erect limps off,

her man’s strong help conniving, hidden.


I, alone, witness subtle bolstering.

Asked … a withered hand, hip-height, reaches back.

Given, a caressing low-five of support.


Such depth.

Years of love in a brushing,

gentle touch.


Solitary, with his magazine,

eyes stare, unfocused,

reading not an inky word.


For just a mo’ our eyes connect.

Raw fear exposed, a glimmer just,

and withdrawn, fast as a pounding heart.


A brittle smile, a nod … alone,

a weary head drops blank-eyed

and yearns her pale return.


How many years their love o’ercame

cruel slings and arrows, rocks and stones?

Now trapped in life’s departure lounge.


She’s back, a new appointment made.

Delicate steps move away, in hope

or resignation, I cannot say.


My name is called …


Copyright Mac Logan

Mac Logan is a Scottish Poet & Author.      

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