There are no more dances there.
When she clocks in,
the batwings sound
as if they are ready to drop.
She lays the silver down
and watches faces
melt off the backs of spoons.
Then she crosses herself,
clears her throat,
places the moon at the window.
Some nights, a moth
drifts towards it
and rests on the glass.
Moth legs,
directionless,
slowly turn, soothe
the gray face
with its body.
