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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=553599" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>From The Ballrooms</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=553599" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Awakened into the orbit where they are <br>Without voices—somewhere shouting mutedly <br>To the remaining coyotes who have no dinner dates: <br>The circus and the fireworks tents <br>Are taken down and someone else writes a better<br>Novel and dreams of running away—<br>Ogled by truckers in the shopping malls of their<br>Heirlooms—as the Indians sleep downhill from<br>The flea markets of their gas stations—<br>And their dreams have no stanzas—maybe it is <br>Because they fought too long, and that they couldn't<br>Understand any of their numbers: <br>When they saw the goldfish in the wishing wells of<br>Their shopping malls, they just pissed on them—<br>And did not wait for the rain to leave to step outside: <br>They became too drunkardly for their girlfriends<br>Who left them for boys who could almost always be<br>Defined by their occupations—firefighters and werewolves, <br>As the lights fell away from the cities at the edge of<br>The world that no one cared about—far away from<br>The ballrooms in which almost anyone could become famous.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Bret+R.+Crabrooke">Bret R. Crabrooke</a></strong></div>