the walls are now painted rose
and the lace curtains are drawn back
like wedding veils bellying above us.
The muted trumpet begged the sax
to follow, the drummer, with his shirt open
to the waist, the floor crowded with bodies
in motion. I can no longer just dance along.
In looking was once longing
belonging to such regard,
in longing the often short course to having,
in its young and sudden reward.
I could let any strong chord
pull my hips this way, run through me
from bass to treble, deliver me
to another dancer’s arms,
so the whole room warmed
or could, or did. Now there’s wisteria
framing the open window,
and the band has begun the Beguine
I will dance to this number as his
and he as mine, evergreen and spun.