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Waltzhing Matilda
Tonight, the stars dance on tiny white tables
to the music of a singing waiter moon.

And there she sat, in all her glory, perched upon her chair,
legs angled.

Like an ant, I march from her toe to her skirt hem,
counting the tiny dots, tracing my future.
The fan blows her skirt higher and higher and higher

I am a man of substance.
I am a rock, a boulder, an unmoved landmark,
crumbling like an ant under a heel.

When her star eyes dance to the music of that white moon
I am ashamed.

I will go outside, I will greet her with the words of great men.

Alas,
The carpet seems to be eating my laced up shoe.