She sits watching the TV
when a Fred Astaire film
comes on. He steps onto
the scene. That stroll, fast turn,
pause. Tip of his hat. Wink. Music
swells. She jumps up. Shoves back
the coffee table. Kicks off her shoes.
Prances down the room to the melody.
Raises her left arm to an imaginary shoulder.
Curls her right arm around the waist of the man
In tux and tails. She backs six steps on her tiptoes.
Twirls as he lifts Ginger up, her fluffy skirt encircling
them in a crescendo of song. She knows he doesn’t
need her or any other woman. He is master
of scaling walls, skittering across ceilings,
dancing with his own perfect shadow.
This poem first appeared in Orange Room Review (October 2012).
Used here with the author’s permission.