I Can Still Place My Feet

A listless mirror-ball, a pair of limpid
ceiling fans is what I can recall, there
were some random streamers hung
defying age and gravity more than
creating atmosphere – and balloons
in cheerless clumps, wrinkled and
deflated cases numbered more than
those still plump with air.

This was where I learned to dance.

The gramophone was ancient but it
played with power and clarity, our
patient dance instructor well aware
the adolescents in her care impressed
in meetings of the flesh at heart,
and dancing rarely intervened to
damp that flame. But even then
I learned enough to dance.

For years I heard the music played,
heard her voice as it conveyed
essential beat, the placement of the
feet, the movement of the hands
and where to face our heads; for
me although I never made the
grade with any of the girls I can
still place my feet with dancer’s care.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-02-05