A SMALL OLD WAREHOUSE IN OAKLAND

A small old warehouse in Oakland,
As we park,
A woman kneels on a mat,
On the front doorstep of a house across the street.
We go in,
To the top floor that’s been converted to a performance space.
We sit on a hodgepodge of chairs and stools,
None of them quite comfortable the way you’d like.
December, no heat,
It’s cool, most of us keep our jackets on.
Enormous sky lights in the white ceiling provide lighting,
So we can watch dancers dance,
We listen to piano, a voice, a kazoo
An Elf, Mrs. Claus, Dorothy, a Scarecrow,
Then Bodies, made beautiful thru will,
Just moving.
Sometimes we just sit and listen to the piano,
No dancing,
Notes echo in the bare floored room,
Cold and brash,
There is really nothing cozy about it.
But everyone is smiling,
The effort to make something beautiful,
Is felt,
Radiating outward,
Touching everyone,
Rippling into our lives,
Ever onward.