Poem: The Dance Floor

By Beth Harvey

Where are you?
The dust keeps settling.

I keep waiting for the creak and tap as you move across the room.
To hear the click of the light switch and feel the light pour down on us.

I keep waiting to be swept up. Shouldn’t the fiddle be starting soon?

Shouldn’t I be collecting the kids, ready for their twirls and running games?
Shouldn’t we be collapsing into each other in laughter now?

Waiting.
As I meet and greet everyone entering, the footstep gathering of a crowd.

I keep waiting for the call for partners. Waiting to support the lines of you.
Waiting in anticipation of this next dance.

I’m ready.
I’m ready for the swirl.
Ready for that shush of shuffles we create together.
Those stomps and chugs and taps.

Dip down to me now.

But it’s dark. And the dust keeps settling.
The only sounds are my own pops and creaks
as the swelling of the summer humidity
turns to shrinking of this cold dark winter.

I am waiting.

     
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