(Sunday Scrilbbings' writing prompt: Suspending Reality)
From the balcony
he was just a speck
onstage
but when he erupted
into dance
singing
I was surprised
that my eyes were stinging
with tears
I wasn't even a fan
Many concerts later
with my girl
rockin' and singing
dancing and sighing
smiling till our faces hurt
The women
who'd seen The Real Thing
or maybe didn't
because their parents
damned him
forbade them
They're here
wearing T-shirts
carrying purses
blinking buttons
bearing his name
his face
they approach
to wipe his face
get a kiss on the cheek
He wraps them
in scarves
pitches teddy bears
dancing
swinging
gyrating the way
their mommas
used to fear
they spend their
pensions
on souveneirs
road trips to Branson
to anywhere
he's performing
they push to
the front of the line
bearing all kinds of
paraphanalia
for him to sign
to fill their bedrooms,
living rooms
family rooms
wrinkled faces
painted on eyebrows
walkers, wheelchairs
purple hair
they're all screaming
pushing others
out of the way
to get that teddy bear
for those hours
those days
they are sowhere else
someTIME else
reality is suspended
everything that hurts them
or worries them
is then in some
fictional
unwritten future
for those moments
they are in their poodle skirts
defying fundamentalist mothers
scared for their purity
sneaking out
to dance and scream and cry
and boogie all their blues
away
they are girls again
and he is Real
and they are all
alive
