The Ballerina and Her Doc Holiday

The Ballerina,
Wobbles on the train tracks west of town.
Unable to dance,
But able to walk
and wander down the line.

Her cherry trees bend
And bow down,
Dropping tiny blossoms
Curling and sad to the ground.
Petals lost,
But well spent...
Apparently.

Her hair is yellow again,
Shiny,
Oily,
Burning,
Torching the roads.

A long time ago,
The Ballerina’s Doc Holiday
Called the moon down.
They swung together from it’s pearly beam
On a golden trapeze.

Until Doc let go,
and dropped.
He held up his revolvers,
Shivered...
And lost himself to shadows.

Behind the red curtain,
Doc bore nothing of his former self,
Just a white wicked smile on the black,
and a tendril of grey laughter.

“Drink down the tonic,
Just one more time
You have to perfom.”

Now,
Under an Orange Sky,
Atop the largest Ferris Wheel
in the world,
The Ballerina is silenced.
Across the beach and beyond the sea
The moon rises starbird.
This time
Pale and useless,
Migrant and hopeless,
But still lightly charming.

There is nothing to do now for the Ballerina,
But spin.