If you must dance vicariously,
do it in stilettos-
Split leap from star to star, then
swan dive down
into the deepest satin silence
of outer space.
Do it In the crowded waiting room
that smells like bandaids and old age,
where patients and their old lovers murmur,
as they flip through Time’s pages.
( clearing their throats of inert rage)
And when you finally hook up to     that machine,
pretend you are in the arms of young Gene Kelly,
with your strong bare back pushed up against the sterile wall,
and one arabesque toe pushing right through the false ceiling.

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