The Dance

by Sandy Benitez

Secretly, I'm a gypsy just like Stevie.
Twirling around in layers of chiffon,
dancing to music only heard by birds. 
 
At the grocery, I patiently wait in line,
clutching my straw tote and a bouquet
of paper flowers. Each one buying me 
 
time, a bag of crisp nectarines and
vitamin C. The tabloids tell lies
about people I will never know and I feel
 
no empathy. My diamond ring glistens
under fluorescent lights like Sarah,
the poet in my heart. Every other day 
 
we exchange notes, written on soft hands.
The plucked feather of a one-winged dove 
scribbles my dreams as I walk home. 
 
My ballerina flats begin to wander
towards the horizon. I tell them it's
not time. Until the music stops, 
 
the dance will go on.