Freestyle

Ribbit IV

When song turned to dance
thirty years ago
my rustic, unplugged,
and MTV-free
childhood rendered me
self-conscious, tense, and
generally joyless.

This is a self effacing glimpse into a self effacing riff on whistling and dancing. The poem is still rough, but it’s coming closer to a reflection on letting go and loosening up. A lyric look at wooing whimsy.

The snapshot above is totally autobiographical. I remember like it was yesterday red hot mortification flooding me when my dance partner whispered into my ear, “I feel like we’re ballroom dancing.” She wasn’t flattering me. She was feeling even more awkward than I. “We are,” I said listening intently for beats in “Purple Rain” to guide my jerky steps…

Leave a Reply