You don’t dance, so

I drummed my fingers

On the tabletop

And my feet keep time

Under the table

As we watched the revelers

Out on the floor

I kept thinking

I am not yet old enough

To sit all night like this:

Some stone in a chair

With his fingers wrapped around a glass

But out of some sense of propriety

I stayed with my older relatives

Conjuring memories we never shared;

Painting tragedies in soft pastels;

Turning sinners into saints

And we traded photographs

And we made plans

And we told tall tales

Until the music stopped

And the alcohol stopped flowing

From the gilt-wrapped waiter’s hand

But as we moved to go, I

Danced a two-step

Across the floor

Someone whistled in appreciation

And a lifetime of tiny regrets

Wrought an old familiar shudder from my soul

10/10/2003

Posted on 11/07/2003
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch