Shy Boy

I wait for my shadow to forget me,

to take that one phantom step that I keep

from taking. I wait for the simple flash

of a dancer's spat upon this one moon

of stage-light, the mind's lonely oval

illuminated on the surface of some

windless pond or slew. And the old soft-shoe

practices to get it right, husha-husha-hush

in its constant audition of sawdust.

Even this choreography of useless

wishing is not enough to keep tonight

from becoming nothing more than some floor's

forgotten routine where faded, numbered

dance-steps silently waltz themselves away.

The orchestra's now ready to Fauré

into the evening's last song while I try

to convince myself to cross this room

for the first time all night and rinse

what's left in some débutante's silver

sequined waterfall, hope keeling hopelessly

ever closer to the edge. Across the floor

other couples sashay on. A tin flask empties

itself from asking, the shadow's last chance

now wasted in some chandelier's dim lust.