Old People Dance in Private.
Not just the Rumba, Charleston, or Lindy Hop
before the granddaughter comes to visit.
Twirling around the kitchen
slapping the air with clam-claps
like hollow castanets,
elbows and ankles marching up
an invisible ladder,
joyous spasms jerking.
No name for this dance yet.
Swirling alone recalling fleeting moments
with a toddler who two-stepped my heart.
Facing age, hers and mine.
Her day today, seventeen.
Forgiving the sun-ripened silken hair,
adrift with fruity rose-petal scent—.
The virginal blush.
Her foot jitterbugging in nervous tapping
echoing off a wax-sheened wooden floor
waiting—to slide, to spin,
to spill a heart-crushing slow dance
saved only for him.