My Next Poem

My Next Poem

My next poem will have a dancing bear in it, and
little girls playing at a make-believe tea party, and
dozens of souped-up vintage cars from the fifties

and sixties. Music will be provided by a kindly old
accordion player, and passers-by will stop to polka
to the out-of-key music. Those who twirl into dance

are dressed as if they knew all along there would
be a polka party. The pretty girls and women wear
white blouses decorated with yellow and red floral

patterns, flowing skirts, and flowered hair-bands.
The boys and men glow in white shirts elaborately
garnished in red and blue and baggy bright blue

trousers. All the dancers will wear red leather boots.
The dancing bear in his silly hat will perform clumsy
pirouettes, not knowing how to polka at all, while

the others continue swirling around the funny, furry
beast. The hot cars will stop one-by-one and the
drivers will open the hoods of their shiny machines

though neither the dancers nor the little girls will take
much notice of the noise or the glowing chrome.
The little girls will sip their pretend tea. The dancers

will dance delightfully. The drivers will assume
devil-may-care poses and light cigarettes from packs
they had rolled up in the sleeves of their t-shirts.

The dancing bear will see the smoke and twirl over
to the young men, not to put out the fire, but to bum
a cigarette. Music will play, the dancers will dance,

the bear and cool motor-heads will smoke while they
look under the hoods of their hot cars, and the little
girls' tiny teapot will never empty in my next poem.