I wish this were not my job
We danced. He played. We listened. Down the years
he changed remade himself. The music throb
changes remains. It is the artist's job
to be chameleon. He's dead. Our tears
are for ourselves and how he helped us be
ourselves through change. Let's not talk of his flaws
today – so many. Wash them in applause
For now. I weep he helped me to be free.
Life is, death is, a cavalcade of grief.
We know, we feel, we dance. And then we lose
who made us. So we put on our red shoes.
Lets dance contempt for death, who is the thief
makes life and dancing matter. In the sky
a starman waits. He knows and tells us why.