.Maridene.
The morning's start stop halt
carries you for a moment
Maridene
so that you’re almost sure of a dance
existing in the alleyways
where traffic plays with the light
and you’re unsure.
Oh
and that dance
brought crisp in bottled clapping cocoons
sold in silk, you see,
at stands on corners.
It has always intimidated you
hasn’t it
Maridene?
So lost in your tragedy and rustic ruffles
your skirts
maroon and pressed
aren't of this age.
Your mood spoils season.
People pay you
to fulfill their lives
and that dance doesn’t suit you
Maridene
that dance cannot fit you
within its stuttered syllables
and slewed syntax
–your dreams cannot be written no
you cannot be sung.
We’ll mourn you forever
Maridene
tragically the student of circumstance
madly the puppet of sorrow.
