ABOUT EASTERN DANCERS

This day unveils itself in transparent silk
Like an  Eastern dancer’s shoulders swaying to her undulating hips.
There are no bells or tambourines
And those who bubble sweat across their cheeks
Percolate with tickling ghosts through the viced humidity
As sounds of sirens base across the avenue;
Lasting much longer than they should
When the crisp May morning rarifies
The interchange of soprano sparrows
Making room for squawking crows by later afternoon…
Gardeners palm the mounds,
Faulting from their plants,
Leaving finger prints as they press the moisture
Pumping into sticky clumps beneath their finger nails.
The soil heels into a gauze-like mist,
Allowing me to guess, if drizzle
First rises from the earth,
Then only later falls out from the sky…
Adolescent girls lower their halter sleeves,
And Kleenex shoulders and necks,
While bathrobed mothers bend along the stoop
To pick the morning papers up;
Wondering if their daughters danced last night
In swaying steps mothers sometimes dream about,
When watching movies on TV.