ON A SATURDAY NIGHT

Like a hummingbird,
floating through the air,
so does the music
born in Havana.

Weaned on the rhythm of bongos
and the sound of
icy mojitos quivering
in tall thin glasses,
the night club was alive,
as interconnected silhouettes
danced in the shadows
like poetry of motion,
in search of the magic of joy
on a Saturday night.

Life shapes itself,
turning on a dime,
and joy was quickly
swallowed by grief,
for those who witnessed
the fragility of life,
in a tragic scene
taking place in real time,
in a loft,
that hovered above the dance floor.

Paramedics, exuding characteristic calm,
were draped over a prostrate body,
trying, with the utmost of urgency,
to prevent one soul
from slipping into everlasting invisibility.

Soon they all disappeared in the darkness,
through the cracks of time,
awakening memories of what
can be lost in the blink of an eye.

I was a reluctant voyeur,
but easily mesmerized
by the mystery
of it all,
the drama...
and will always wonder
if the light from a stranger's life
continued to shine on Sunday.

I was intoxicated by the surrealism,
worthy of a Dali painting,
and by the uncanny inability
of the candle of life
to maintain a continual flame,
forever subject to the whims
of an indifferent breeze.

Equally as fascinating
is what little difference
it made to most,
and how profound a consequence
it was for some, but either way,
the dancers continued
to move like a whirlwind;
the music was luminous in the darkness.

The band played on,

and the drums...

never missed a beat.

© JOHN PISCATELLA