Dance of the Drunkard (Poem)
DANCE OF THE DRUNKARD by Stephen Embleton Pas seul they step out into the night, A solo dance for a lone urbanite. Eyes glazed and dazed with disorient. Behind them fades sounds of merriment. The dark path ahead holds a chilly bite. A wallet made light. But a mobile holds weight. Its cold bright screen holds texts gone bad. No friends to hail, no ride-share to wait, Tentative forefinger held over keypad. A pang of sorrow, a flutter of guilt Reminders of the burning bridges they built. They click closed their screen and pocket the brick. A tug at their coat a reassuring trick. But little will quell the well of seasick. Their world is askew, blearily eyed askance. They’re onto the pavement, and ready to dance. Wallowed and willowed in unending lament. Dripped and drunk down to the cent. No partners remain for the promenade stance. A chassé to sidestep invisible foes, Opposing forces jab at their will. Imagined adversaries the cause of their woes, Now the horizon has tilted as if up...