The Dancing Beggar of London

I saw him first at Leicester Square 
then two nights later at Piccadilly; 
tonight he’s at King’s Cross. 
He dances to his tambourine, 
feet tapping and shuffling, 
a ghostly harlequin 
scuffling over worn stones.

Hands drop coins into his sack—
stones tossed down an ancient well 
where no water waits 
nor circles move.

His is the dance of death: 
flesh hanging like moss 
on limbs of ashen trees, 
bare legs and bony arms spread out 
absurdly akimbo, 
muddy eyes looking toward heaven—
a comic Christ upon a cross.

At Chekhov’s play, where actors 
move with grace and speak 
their lines with skill upon 
a well set stage, I cannot 
brush his eyes from my seeing 
nor shake his tapping from my ears. 
“Dear sisters, if we live a little longer, 
perhaps we will come to know why . . .”