The Strip

I need to be seen on the sidewalks of your being,
Clicking my heels to the track in your mind.
Like the cramps of coworkers,
My heart aligns with your direction.

I pause as you near,
Feel the air disappear as my dress suddenly feels too short,
My feet too big…

And you...

You are encapsulated
Like the pills in a pharmacy -
Each containing a miracle -
Yet unapproachable, with that high counter between us
And a sign on your countenance that reads,
“You must have proof…”

I swallow my salutation as you pass,
Feel it crawl under my skin and land, heavy on my heart.
I stomp my swelling feet and my heels complain,
But too quickly you are consumed by the blackness.

I look, upward, to shout at the night,
But I am silenced by neon voices who guide me
Back to the sidewalk where the beat of my feet
Click out my mantra in morse code meditation.
A low breeze lifts my hem as modesty defers to the clicking counsel below.
“You are free. You are free. You are free. You are free.”
It states to the flesh that pours from the confines of my corset, to my nylon bound feet and my bra-broken in, unabashed breasts.
"Finally, you are free."

~ © J Grey, 2016.