Last Dance?

BY MAC LOGAN

 

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and withdrawn, fast as a pounding heart.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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