(15/07/56 / Curragh Camp, Co. Kildare, Eire.)

The Death Of A Secret Salsa Dancer

She, the natural
born dancer.

I, who
can’t dance

to save my life.

She, won’t dance
without me.

I feel so
guilty

depriving her
of this pleasure.

Think I will surprise
her

by secretly
attending salsa classes

thinking of
transforming myself

into this
fantastic dancer.

Sweep her off her feet.
No sweat.

But trying
desperately too

to struggle through

last year’s head injury
which makes every movement

an agony/

Even a simple 1 2 3
is not as easy as A B C

My shirt
is see through
with sweat & effort.

Perspiration
runs down
my arm
onto my partner’s wrist.

I drip to the beat
...beads of sound.

I can see the Yuck!
in her eyes.

I retire
in acute embarrassment.

Guess my dancing days
are done

& only
in my dreams

am I a secret
Salsa dancer.

Even in my own
kitchen
(I’m a wallflower)

as my wife
salsas with my daughter

The room
all music & laughter.

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