A party at our house, for my wife.
I dance with the woman I love.
Is this why I threw that party?
Music swirls, Dylan singing Hurricane.
We are too far gone to realize they watch
exchanging looks, us holding on
our eyes closed, every heart beating.
When the music stops we step apart
reprise our parts of just good friends
as tension gatecrashes the party.
Her husband marches her to the kitchen
while we overact like soap characters.
Voices hiss, someone says, Drunk
the party’s volume gradually increases.
Those wives, that music, are in the past.
I sit alone remembering, book forgotten
pages splayed, my leg gone to sleep.
I try to lift it, to feel something. Dead.
Pins & needles, the slow return of blood
a kind of pain, circling, as if far off.
How could I dance now with a leg like this?
Ian c Smith, 340 Settlement Rd., Calulu, 3975, Australia
03 51571578 firstname.lastname@example.org