The Waltz by Rick Hartford

She was smoking crack In an abandoned car. Seen through a broken windshield. Somebody suggested, This was staged, With some outrage, I suspect. But that's not how its done. Every story is a dance, A clumsy embrace, mostly. As you try to move to a rhythm, That you figure out along the way. You insist that they lead, In a waltz they must do alone, With a spirit for a partner, Who whispers in an ear: I can't tell you where to go, Or what to do. Just take me with you. So we came to this place In a darkened garage, And a pipe was lit, And a picture was made.