The Dance

(apologies to William Carlos Williams)

In my not-so-great memory, it’s a mess:
the dancer stands still, she stands stock still,
still staring at the floor, the wall, and at the
twaddle of her friends, who fidget and fiddle
sucking in their bellies (convex as her thick-
lensed glasses whose view they distort)
those heels and that dress doing nothing
to sway her. Shuffling and mumbling
about the Cafetorium, conscious of her butt, those
flanks must be covered to bear up under the
rollicking pressure, I cringe until unhinged
in my not-so-great memory, at this mess.

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