The Last Chorus Girl of the West
She is a long way from the old saloon,
the boarded windows of Father’s face,
the self playing piano like a harmonica
in the pocket of a hanging man – still
making scraps of songs of the air.
The drawl’s gone, darlin’ too, stuffed in
a garter that tied back a dying girl’s hair.
Her silence is silver, loaded, palm shaped
– way too many have died, fallen in.
Yet, somehow we let out smiles slip,
me and the last chorus girl of the West,
the pianist back, feet without footsteps up n down.
When we expect nothing, muscles, tendons
our invisible musician pedals, plays us, a tune.
Angela Readman‘s poems have been commended in The Arvon International Poetry Competition, won the Biscuit Competition, Ragged Raven and The Essex Open Poetry Competition.