Sun drenched dancers and their all too dark ballet flats

kiss the grey cement with their tip toes

bleeding red kool-aide onto the chalk smeared sidewalk

Running into the heat of the blackness

jumping into the grey-blue sky as the thunder cracks

where the inspiration of dance never dies

Touch the orange half circle, breath the sweet air - go on, breath it in

and succumb to the setting moon in reverse

you’ll only have to wait for the dancers

Wait for the phone to ring on your marble table

while the rest of us run through the corn fields

and Iowa will never be the same when you leave it behind

Follow the dancers into shady fields of six feet stalks;

when you try to breath nothing will come of it

unless you jump above the height - good luck - and overcome the corn field.