The Death Of My Disco


Whatever happened to those overhead disco balls?
I still dance from time to time
but I look up and nothing’s spinning.

May as well ask where did the 70’s go.
Same place as all the other decades –
devoured by the one following.
In my case, the eighties,
meeting the right one,
settling down.

So no more electric drumming.
The heart must do its beating solo.
And no dumb lyrics, repetitive chorus.
Ok, so maybe there is
but that’s now called conversation.

Besides, my body’s not up for boogieing on down.
It’s designed for pushing lawnmowers,
painting the sides of houses,
even sex, if there’s any of me left over.

As for the Village People –
there’s a retirement village
three blocks away
that’s crying out for me
to join it someday.
And yes, I do believe there’s people living there.


The Death Of My Disco

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.
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