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  • Inspired by a staged reading of a new play about the dancer.

    You keep going, a road company of your former self.
    Is it for fame? Being trotted out is not the same.
    “Curiosity,” “I saw him once,” “Before he’s gone.”
    You try to joke and say that it's the sex, the hangers-on
    with whom you cum each night and then you’re gone.
    But we know better, you and I; we know why you’re afraid.
    Each man needs to know that he’s connected, to know where he is from.
    There’s no amount of adulation, no cheering or applause
    prepares us for a final bow if we do not belong.
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