Dancing in the early hours
to Leonard Cohen’s oak-aged voice
swaying drunkenly to his words,
arms slack as streams of poured wine,
eyes soft as the vowels he intoned;
her feet uncertain, stepping cautiously
over the cobbles of song;
hearing each word a moment too late,
singing one beat behind;
the wine glass tipping precariously and
still the wine defying gravity
like her life was about to spill
and still it did not
a genie above a lamp for so many minutes,
holding the room expectant but
as suddenly as appeared was no more;
it seemed a spotlight went out.
