I am at the bus stop on Leroy,
Waiting for the 28 Psychiatric Center.
A collage of retards keeps me company.
I guess they need the same bus.
There are three of them:
A middle-aged, scrubby fellow,
Sporting yellow socks and blue velvet pants;
A younger lad, wearing a smiley-face T-shirt
And wrinkled black jeans, held up by striped suspenders;
A woman in her sixties, with a big face,
Dressed in brown coveralls.

The bus is ten minutes late, already.
Suddenly, as if by some magic command,
They all start dancing.
Now they are holding hands; now they are
Spinning out of control individually,
Like some Persian whirling dervishes.
Their moves are grotesque; I can’t describe them.
I feel scared, then amused, for a second, then terrified.

I notice that they are all eyeing me;
There’s no one else at the bus stop,--
Or anywhere else at that moment.
And then I join them.
Years ago, I’ve heard about this really cool movie,--
“Dancing at Lufthansa.”
I don’t know why I thought of that…
But the point is… we are dancing … on Leroy.
We throw our feet forward, left then right,
Cabaret-style; We do that move the French call
Pa-De-De; I am ecstatic, I flip ass backwards;
We are dancing … we are dancing … we could be
Taking Las Vegas by storm.

The bus drives right past us,--
None of us waved him in;
There’ll be another one, but for now
We, the retards, are dancing on Leroy.