One Last Dance with the Marionettes

The endless stream of faces, the hot summers looking out
Over blue choppy waters, some days smooth as skin.
Little white chips, some like matchsticks, daggered here and there.
The constant stream of courtesies and salutations and all of it

Done in the dark, under fluorescent lights hot on the skin...
I keep waiting for the pink girls, the hot pink girls,
The girls of a color not normally seen by the naked eye.
But that is not the sensation we are observing from.

The endless stream of faces, a shared mirage,
A boat we know is a boat even from this distance.

A slight abuse of posture betrays something odd,
But at the mention of fishing or a cousin in Missouri
Brings things around. Back here, in line, an uncouth clerk
Whom we can only tolerate. We need our bread.

There is only the toleration, and the patience,
And the quiet pleading, the tolerant stance and the motes
We can't see. Here, by the lake, under the hot lights,
The motes drift on off through the windows

Vying for attention like butter-smeared knifes,
A smile not quite sure of itself or what it is doing
Amongst the pine tree boughs and feckless manzanita.

We shall be sure to keep trying, to keep dancing
Long after we have faltered.