With a dead eyed sneer and tip of his hat, the corpse

of the man shambled  back,

 to his grave before

morning became

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