Anyone who danced with them would move slowly today, if at
Soon my legs will be shaky
for old man arthritis scratches my knees
in time he will be clawing.
I'm watching a WWII era musical, colorized.
That chorus girl moving center stage,
kicking up her luscious legs,
and I are boogying across the years,
for I'm dancing while my legs can still bend
on my living room floor,
while she--ageless pixy of pixels--
spins on a luminous screen.
If I stepped through that screen into her time
I'd be a gawker by the stage door
watching her pass me by.
But here in my living room I've just asked her to dance,
and she's now keeping time with me
as the music slows from jitterbug to waltz.
Would she mind if she really knew?
The two of us, today
growing closer, growing older.
If you've any comments on his poem, Richard Fein would be pleased to hear from you.