What Nobody Knows

You’re outside in the early morning darkness when it’s still wet and quiet where they can't hear you, they can't see you, they can't stop you. Nobody knows this, but you. Nobody knows that you spit out their tranquilizers and come out here to dance. They don’t even know you’re not still in bed. The night shift, such losers, reading their People magazines under florescent lightbulbs, unaware you’re a rule-breaker again; you’re back, you’re outdoors alone and you’re forbidden to be outdoors alone, and yet here you are being a little dickens again, such a little dickens, a wife once called you, back then, before, when you were you, when you blazed in the limelight, when they came by the tens of thousands to hear you speak, to cheer you on at the top of their lungs, chanting chanting chanting your words, believing your words, because they were the best words and nobody else would dare use them. You hated being alone back then and you never were alone, but look at you now, dancing in the dark. Alone.