I remember that Queer do
in some place just off Leicester Square.
There was the man in the Freikorps uniform
dancing alone to R. Dean Taylor on the floor.
It wasn’t long before I was dancing too.
(Later, I invented my disgust
at his get up to hurt the friend I'd come with).
Music is always doing things to scenes and bodies:
rhythms marked with the weight of heads,
a foot tapping, the Stadtmenschen gathering in the square,
and the good political sense of every smile.
In the condensation on the window
I draw a five line staff and leave it blank.