He Dances Standing Still
by Deb Cole
His purple plant-like hair rippled earthquakes when he shrugged his shoulders. "That's not hair! she cried. "It's a living organism!"
Past the Sound he pierced his attention. His thought patterns beamed off the ocean's waves.
His dog whined gently at his feet - wanting to go forward in the direction of his step. He sniffed the air to determine the break of his rhythm.
Sensing no danger he laid at his master's feet like a hairy rug, the magic carpet he might ride to the moon and back, waiting for his return from a place so deep.
His feet like swollen lobsters, blackened toes and chipped soles, barefoot in winter.
Unable and unwilling to bind his feet in boots or shoes, needing to transmit the delicate impulses of his heart through the bottoms of his feet.
There's a lot of coming and going, transmitting and receiving in his frozen stance.
His stillness is as lively as a jungle.
Like his hair, he dances standing still.
Robert Bruce Facer