Will it cause the dead to dance?
They’ve been waiting, arrayed

around the sides of the room,
like so many wallflowers, fearful

foxtrotters, watching watching
fidgeting, sipping the dusty

punch, sizing up their options.
A quake might encourage them

to party, to at least adjust
their underwear, which after years

horizontal, has a tendency to
ride up. Or maybe husbands will

be thrown on top of wives after
years of side-by-side inaction

even when alive. And when they get
there, what? A coffin rub of wax

and wane? Ancient immigrants
who never cuddled, thrown into

spoons, disinherited grumbling
children with a chance to pound

some sense into musty parents,
and tiny tiny ones, whose birthdays

sent them out too weak for life,
eager, big-eyed, coming up for air.