He dances with ghosts
Forever is such a long, long time to go
without knowing how
to fox trot.
Nor waltz, tango, jitterbug,
box step or cha-cha into eternity. Nobody turns,
no hand in his hand. No wrist
like a stopwatch, ticks out blood time
draped over his shoulder. Nobody smiles,
dips her sharp chin, hides a tight grin
and follows each sweep of his steps.
Clumsy or practiced, heavy or slight,
she is nowhere reflected. The heat
or the light from his effort, the
exercise, short-breathed and pink
from no bounce, tarry, twirl, sashay, tip.
Dip. No dip. Nothing held or upheld
in a strong-yet-soft grip. No venture,
no gain. Not even music. No strings
from the balcony, horns from afar,
piano, accordion, drum. No guitar strums
lines he might follow.
He dances with ghosts. Spirits of sense
in his driveway, his kitchen, his den.
Imagining shoes and the click as they tick
across parquet and marble. Sashes and slips
and maybe a boa.
No… probably not. Too dramatic.
This isn’t the 30’s. He’s got to be
reasonable, even in dreams.
The band plays. It goes on
a very long
time
so it seems.
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Stumble it!
Almost as beautiful as my imaginary wife. My favorite line: “Too dramatic. This isn’t the 30’s.”