Tracee draws smoke from the Marlboro deep
Into twenty-year old lungs,
Presses her thin back into the damp wood
bolstering the porch, thoughts on a life left behind.
Silver metal trailer, 30 steps toe-to-toe wide,
poised like a bullet, pointing to nowhere
squats as far on the outskirts of Urbana
as possible and still be part of the town.

Tracee remembers gazing through
the small rounded windows
sucking in deep the cool summer night air
sister Molly tugs at her gown, small hands raised.
Lifting her close the sweet smell of Molly
fills Tracee’s nose and round and round
they whirl to songs Tracee hums
as they dance.

“Tracee you’re on,” Dusty shouts from
behind, and she runs a hand through her hair.
Hot, smoky air greets at the door
Tracee climbs now-familiar wooden steps to the stage
Shaking off the pink nylon robe, Tracee spins to face
a crowd dreaming of a girl who doesn’t exist
thinking of sweet Molly, Tracee finds a smile
and gyrating effortlessly,
She dances.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007

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