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  Maureen Weldon
   
      THE DANCER

I am tired,
my brain hangs loose,
locked in my rucksack.
This is the hour for the owl to fly,
to hoot to the winking moon -
through clouds of mist.
This is night
the quiet time:
because I am on my own...
While night-clubs choke
with laughter,
and the girl in the white dress throws her shoe
at the man who wanted to fill it
with beer, but could not,
no matter how hard he tried.
Then the many houses,
blinking with lovemaking,
and babies and grannies
and granddads.
But I like being on my own
in this quiet time,
because tomorrow
I will wrap my ankles
round the world.
 



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