The Man Who Taught Me How Not To Dance
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?
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.
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