An Hour After The Wolf

She black-swans soft across a gray marble floor,

silver-tipped nimbus bouncing around her

as she ascends into a gallery of heroes with a

look that is a question

Where do I stand?

arching on her brow.

And I think about that look.

And I wonder about that look,

and guess that she wants me to tell her—

though it’s something she already knows:

In the spotlight, of course.

But when she spins I turn from her, and

when I spin she turns from me.

This is no tryst, no assignation.

This is no serious thing.

This is a person on my arm, a companion for a visit to

a hall of the famous

and nothing more.

Nothing more.

But she outshines them all, so why did we…?

And when I spin

she slowly turns toward me….

The spotlight soon will be daylight, and

if the sun points to her,

should I turn to look?