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The Empty AlBert

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The Albert senses dance steps coming

long before the feet arrive.

Its hollow, charged with inkling-humming,

longs for samba, swing, and jive.

The Dance Hall, pending its first breath,

predicts the beat with taut floodgates.

The Albert waits. But not in death:

its emptiness anticipates.

The Albert gives a silent roar;

its patrons are not happenstance.

“I’m dancing,” hints the vacant floor,

though no one, yet, is there to dance.

Alan Wagstaff