Dancing at Gunpoint

Running through a minefield
desperately trying to dodge
the glancing blows,
sporadic,
unexpected.
They explode carelessly
as if they were unaware
of an innocent life
trying to escape
unscathed.
Or perhaps more as if
they were making a mockery,
like the man who points a gun
at another's feet
and commands, "dance!"
I'm dancing at gunpoint.
I'm weaving through the explosives.
And I'm dancing at gunpoint.
I tire, I weaken,
but I keep on,
and wait for a second wind,
and hope that there's a third,
and a fourth,
and maybe, if I'm lucky,
a fifth.
I grit my teeth and bear it,
and retaliate with a smile,
because it's all I can do
to keep from exploding
myself.