Dancing in the Dark
Funny how songs stick with you,
like they are just part of the air —
part of life.
I remember when I was a kid,
sitting in a pub in the morning.
There was a funeral:
black ties,
beer and wine,
sad eyes and perfume.
Someone crying softly,
sausage rolls and spilt wine,
morning light in the faded carpet,
cigarette smell drifting through.
This song was playing.
Someone was playing pool —
like a coiled spring,
pacing
round the table,
holding back.
All around,
worlds falling,
broken hearts,
never the same again.
I saw the future.
Joke’s on me, I guess.
Through the grim morning,
Bruce singing.
To start a fire,
you need a spark.
Dancing in the Dark.
Sometimes I hear it,
in the kitchen,
in the supermarket,
at a football match.
I still remember.
It’s a song sung after a few beers
with your pals.
It’s a song whispered at 5 a.m.,
alone with the world,
before the sun comes up.
Dancing in the Dark.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
