POEM OF THE DAY
Taxi Dancing with the Muse
The muse is waiting for you
to take her thin yellow arm
and dance
across a bare white floor.
Waiting
to feel your thumb and forefinger
on her hard hexagonal wrist.
She wants to dance
until her sharp black toe
has gone dull
like the big bronze toe
of Saint Peter in Rome
kissed off
by the endless lines of penitents.
Paper moon and glitter stars
hang from the ceiling
of the suddenly dark ballroom.
Draw yourself
into her pentacle
under the faceted mirror ball
that tosses light
like rain.
Dance until your card is filled
with her name
while on the bandstand
a Fata Morgana
plays heavy thunder.
Later
go sit down
at the big old Underwood in the corner
and show her how to play typewriter rags.
Hurry.
Put on your best cigarette,
your best cup of coffee—
kick off your shoes.
I’ll mail you my magic black fedora if you like…
She’s waiting
waiting
for you.
She may take another hand
and you’ll have to wait for the next dance.
You’ll know her as she looms
out of cigarette smoke
like a Harryhausen colossus
emerging out of fog...
Dana Pattillo
Note: I wrote the original version of the poem for my friend Jonah back in Febraury 1981. Yes, we've known each for a long time, children. I dug it out my files (dogeared manila folders with actual yellowing paper in them), dusted it off, by which I mean I couldn't resist revising the poem a bit as I inputted it, and post it here as a left-handed partial reply to some of the things Ms. Candide has mused about of late.
PoD 103
9:01:07 PM 
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