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