An army of issues
in drab uniform--thud of a parade,
one event like the other.
No breaking ranks, no music
worth marching to. I would rather
dance, lift against gravity, but
I stand on the curb of hours 
trudging by, eyes right,
shoes well laced but tight.
Cliche becomes a verb.

I would rather dance,
lift against gravity,
shake off ennui, be a bird
or ballerina on pointe,
an artist splashing color
on a blank wall,
an explorer scaling
a mountain yet unnamed.