He sketched in charcoal
the arch of a shoulder
the movement of a hand
the woman’s head
turned and tilted slightly
toward the man
I was sixty and I was dancing with Jan,
my brother’s Queen of the Line Dance wife
This is the poem about the Beatles that
I never wrote, and now there are more
yesterdays than tomorrows
It’s the old dancers that fascinate me.
Training everyday as the body resists,
The spirit lifts them into clarity.
I remember sitting on the sofa in my grandparent’s house–my day care center–watching television with my grandfather.
I don’t have to go back
To my childhood, there’s nothing there
I still want…
Ok, I no longer want them,
the many selves I had to manage
that exhausted everyone.
mocking with an ache
that comes with leafdrop, woodsmoke,
and those shots of bourbon that ease
not a thing
Let me say that love will not
let me alone. If it has let you alone, go back
and find it where you hid it under a scrim
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