Riverboat gambler coated,
Thin collar fashionably raised,
The familiar windmill
Spins on blue suede pegs.
I wonder, now, why I never saw
The harsh self-doubt, the
Harshest of self mockery,
The dumb recognition of happenstance
In those flamenco matador poses.
Copper lady, right hand filled
With righteous liberty
As the terrible truth, vulnerability and blame
Crash down again; over
Iconic, decibel-lit harbourscape.
The way it actually is and the other way,
Held in memory, of how it was before.
So much to be proud of.
The air stands still,
The big voice calls on and on.
You? You think too much, preoccupied:
“Who will I be seeing this evening?”
I’m more intrigued by
Who I’m going to be.