ode to wilson (or: doo wop)

blood streaming out of his nose
he looked so wounded,
in the eyes and in the legs that once
did the charleston by the light of
the girl who looked like gold,
but now they just struggle, wounded,
and his shoulders,
too thin for uniform.

he's not going to escape them this time.
but that's okay.
he knows that
it don't mean a thing.
it never does.