Burning Rag-Doll Waltz

Out under the street lights a rag-doll is waltzing;
Her stuffing smoldering... Her tatters in flames.
Arms outflung and spinning, feet tracing the steps
Of a dance never written to be danced alone.
Her stumpy,white hands a mokery to grace with theirflailing,
Her raveled yarn hair flopping, tempting the blaze.
We can't call the cops for there's no law against dancing,
And by the time the fire engines come she will be gone.
At all of the windows I see shadowed faces
Aghast at this insult, but wanting to see.
Some drunk shot the light out, but now the fire's brighter.
The wicker girl's crackling and whirling with glee.
How dare you go buning up out in the street like that?
What about everyone else who's on fire?
Smoke seeps from the windows and pours from the chimneys.
We cough and complain out of sheer courtesy.
They say the first waltzes commanded an outcry;
Their one-two-three candences too close to home...
Too much like a heartbeat, too earthly and wicked,
Too fiery and tempting, too primal and red.
Perhaps the first fires brought a similar panic...
Familiar and powerful; too good for people.
And someone should tell it to that aweful rag-doll!
But, [ashes and cinders], the rag-doll is dead.