It’s been a while now
but long ago
in days past
at clubs long gone,
I used to dance.

When the right band would play
with the right song
I would jump up and make a fat fool of myself
prancing about
sweating and swiftly shifting positions,
posing and provoking anyone around.
I would move.

People would be stunned, sometimes,
into silence,
when I worked that quiet art.
While normally such a vocal creator,
with dance I could let my toesies do the talking.
They would say a lot.

As years have passed
and gray hairs have fallen,
I have tripped the lights spastic less and less often,
down to my current none.
I seem to be done with dancing.

I can only wonder
in my heart of hearts:
is dancing done with me?