Poetry

Suspended

He slips his long arms into the black sleeves

of his machine-washed, machine-washable

Nike jacket.

 

Alerts household members of his immediate leave,

Keeping eyes down and out,

out and away.

 

A windbreaker…it’s windy, after all.

Turns the knob so the door shuts fully.

 

Once outside,

Walks in strides.

A cadence.

Long legs minimally exposed in the

Rhythmic twin gaps between his jeans

and ankle socks.

Earlier today he heard a song.

 

He looks at the moon,

Near-full.

It’s autumn.

 

The song.

Something pop, he remembers.

 

(“But what does “Panic! At the Disco” even mean?”)

He wonders.

(“Is it a warning

of some ongoing disco panic?

Or a command…

To conserve my panic

for an upcoming disco?

So that above the loud noise,

music and clamor,

And behind the bright lights

overhead and swinging, surrounding,

You can’t see or hear me.

Even, even though you’re near me

As I interlock my fingers up and around my neck

And slowly crouch down in the crowd,

My head tilted toward your leg

Chest heaving, dry eyes weeping,

With all the pain of waking life,

The still of fitful sleeping…”).

 

He stops at the overlook…

Looks over.

 

Coming down the tracks, a locomotive,

Its engine a clamorous roar.

 

And as it whistles off its steam,

He grounds his feet; prepares to scream.

 

discomoon

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