I know you dance in the old way
hardly anyone does anymore –
smooth and graceful,
holding your partner close,
twirling at just the right time.
I, a child of the fifties,
vaguely remember the foxtrot,
the polka and swing your partner do-si-do.
I might be able to fake the box step
as violins sob out the wavelets
of the Blue Danube, but you
will have to lead, always.
And how I long for you to do just that,
extending your hand, lifting me from my chair,
taking to the floor to teach me civilization,
as I, head buried in your neck, inhale
the grace and beauty of a time I never lived.
You are the echo of a lost world,
I the shadow trailing in your wake,
stumbling my way backwards
in three-quarter time to meet you
at the place of your beginning.