The dull red light casts an angry gaze
over the twisting bodies of the young girls
dancing to the beat of a drum
that no one hears.
The musicians as each other of the song they once knew
through questioning glances with each beat,
“Is this where I fit in?”
I see that backward glance
of the accident framing the solitude of a flaccid wrist
and think to myself the same question
as the dancing girls
and of those stammering musicians.
I look at the gory picture
“Is this where I belong?”
May 29, 1998