The Man Who Taught Me How Not To Dance

He was thirty five and full-on in jive.

White pants, white shirt in a kung fu styling.

He claimed the floor,

Then he claimed it some more,

As I sat and idly eyed him.

He had rhythm for sure, (maybe needed some more)

But something wasn’t cohering,

And as he danced and swirled

And eyed the girls.

I saw uncool horizons nearing.

Exactly what was amiss?

Was he taking this piss?

Just down for the crack?

As he energy bopped,

The penny dropped,

He swirled, faux delirious:

At thirty five dancing,

Enjoy the prancing,

But never take it serious.

I guess this poem is meaningless unless you know I am this man’s age and, like him, I also like to dance below my age. Its a conundrum for sure, but one that has a solution.