Poetry Archive

Summer Dreams


An army of blondes,
most taller than I,
dance in long rows,
their silky hair and
green dresses swaying
as though choreographed
to the whine and whisper
of songs whistling in
their ears.  Arms held,
high, wavy limbs twisting
they slap their partners'
hands to the beat and
restless harmony of the
song that unites them.

 I stalk through their ranks,
a hired killer af fifteen,
my machete held close
to my thigh, eyes searching
for prey.  Seeing a pretty
redhead, magenta lips
warm and glistening
but prickly arms and legs
forbidding touch, I cut
her off at the knees.
Finding coarse-haired
interlopers with ruddy
brown eyes smothering
the dancers' feet, I
stab deeply into their
hearts, leaving the dead
rotting beneath those stands
of stately blondes, whose
chorus line goes on
despite my savagery.

 In the dust and tedium
of long summer days,
hacking till my shirt clings
to my back, arms leaden,
pollen stinging my eyes,
coating my throat,
I dream of New York
and Paris, of lazy days
and long nights in
softer arms, the thump
and hustle of jazz in
my heart, speaking to
those who speak back,
being the dancer
within the dance--while
through the empty hours,
walking long dusty furrows,
row after row after row,
I am still slinging my blade
for a dollar an hour.

                        Terry Bacon


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Email: terry@terryrbacon.com
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