when I was out dancing the other week,
a batch of young folks walked through those theater doors,
manifestly ready to rule the floor.
dressed for the occasion, they led and followed smoothly,
learned with each new partner ever so swiftly,
asked around for dances lasciviously
and moved between drinks and chats and twirls as suavely
as Frank Sinatra after his comeback on stage.
I, no regular but rather a visitor
that night in that foreign city,
drifted in and out of swingouts judiciously,
ever so aware of the dynamics in the room,
tilting in favor of these young folks
from all corners, the bar and behind the curtains.
for the first time
since I first put on those dancing shoes
in that old Southern barn about ten years ago,
a next generation appeared on the horizon —
cheeky, naive and utterly capable.
and while these scenes of art and dance
deserve to grow and must pass on
all the magic they contain,
I’m compelled to ponder:
my role, my age, the passage of time.
…but not truly, just yet.
before those abundant mortal truths
get even more obvious,
I will iron my dress and put up my hair,
bike down to Tuxedo Junction,
take up the offer,
and twirl til dawn.
it’s no use anyway,
beating the end to it.
so I’ll rather cut my nights
in three minute bites
of golden old brass tunes
that will outlast all of this anyway
and make for a better world.