Gallery

I am a gallery.
My legs make it easy for the patrons to
See the display,
Traipsing a swift pattern down
The centre of ocular hallways.

So,
To respect the poise of
My position, I laugh with a
Heart, though
Feigned.

My head is weighted, dropping,
Nodding in intervallic appreciation of the
Visceral frequencies
That coax my body into dramatising
How they pulse through my bones.

“Do you know who you’re dancing with?”
Asks the body pressed against
My back: moist with perspiration and breath.
A rebuttal falls into
What could have been anything.