With a dead eyed sneer and tip of his hat, the corpse
of the man shambled back,
to his grave before
too painfully bright.
A body long dead and done
with a soul withered at the roots
should not stray
too far from home.
Ah, but he had heard the horns playing
as the music called to him.
“Come dance, come dance!”
So he had, and delighted in the energy
that lay purchase to his desiccated feet
as he flew and flew
to twirl and twirl a lady or two
as a kaleidoscope of colors robed him
and smothered him from Death’s view
that could not find him.
When the last note had ended, Death
finally crooked its bony finger.
So, he crawled back into his grave
and let a small smile come to creep
knowing he would return when the
band called again…
by Philip Wardlow 2016