Dream: The Dance Lion (revised)

Dawn.
You’re up.
You begin to dance
around the house,
feet barely touching,
it’s levitation, almost —

the cat’s as terrified
as if you were vacuuming
and in fact your crap is disappearing
from every surface.
Floors and windows are sparkling
for the first time in a while.

This is going so well you decide
you’re not going to speak at all today
and will communicate only in dance.

At the supermarket
people don’t look at you
as they whisper to each other,

who is this fat middle aged hairball anyway?

Is this dancing,
if so why is he dancing,
and how is it
that the floor’s not shaking?
How does he do that with
his feet grazing the linoleum —
maybe in fact
he’s not touching it?
Best to pretend not to notice —
stay close kids.
Don’t get near him.

The guy at the meat counter
tosses you a steak
which you catch in midair
and gulp down
as you realize that somehow
you’re not just a dancer
but a lion too.

You know you need a pride
so it’s back to the house
to call other lions, or people
who you think might be lions,
or at least dancers
who might be recruited to the cause,
but it’s pointless work
because you only communicate in dance
and the phone’s no good for that.

They recognize your phone by caller ID
and come to your house
where they find you swirling
in the kitchen surrounded by meat
laid out on a floor that’s so clean
they want to eat off it too,
but it’s outside their job descriptions
to be lions or dancers
so once they’re sure you’re fine —

and of course, you are —

they leave you alone
with the vision of yourself
at the head
of hordes of lions
moving through savanna grass
so quietly as if suspended
just a half inch off the ground…

Your cat comes out of hiding
and stares up at you,
for once,
as if you’re not crazy.