A Few Last Questions Poem by Ronald Shields

Dancing alone is an art
perfected in a dim lit room.
The bottled air inoculates against
intimacy and intoxicated memory
confuses the day before and after.

Lovesick in the bathroom
the women go home without
tears or complaints.
Except the last one who
burns inside, red and molten
as you plunge headlong
into one last chance, one last dance.

The machine sucks at your blood.
Keeps you alive and does not cry
or lean over to caress your face.
While you sleep I light a cigarette
and try to take your place.

There are questions to ask,
a few last questions
-are there signs?
Can you hear the hammer click?
Is it bright, lonely, slow, quick?
Are there spirits dancing in the room
or do you dance alone?