Learning To Dance

LEARNING TO DANCE

There's something in me
that doesn't know how to dance.
Somehow my rhythm never reaches my feet.
My first attempt, at 12, failed miserably
when I tried to dance with Mary Dewey,
whom I loved, at a dance in the gym
on the post where I lived,
got my feet tangled and fled the floor
to live in shame and exile for months.
Later, in high school, I tried again
and managed an acceptable but stiff simulation
but there was never any joy in it.
I barely got by but barely getting by
at that age is not acceptable.
So the years rolled on and nothing
was resolved really: I learned to do
other things and fake it when I had to.
Now, approaching 70, I watch old
Fred Astaire movies with envy and regret,
wishing that somehow I'd been able
to glide through life with half his grace
whirling Ginger Rogers away and back
with a very gentle and delicate command.
Maybe next time. Now, with the years
heavy on me as well as a back operation
that left me without what little
suppleness I had, I clump through life
doing the best I can, glad to be able
to do even that. What grace I have
is in language-not a bad thing.
But somewhere in me that defeated boy
longs still, with a boy's longing,
to sail through life on winged feet
whirling that beautiful someone
along with me, the two of us moving
as one. No chance.
Write on my tombstone:
he lived a pretty good life but
he never learned to dance.

Albert Huffstickler

Posted over on Nerve Cowboy