They tell me he'd be the last man
on the floor dancing till the lights
went on, the "Charleston," the "Lindy,"
his wavy hair bouncing, his joyous
eyes bright, a good man moving
in grace across the dance floor.
Through the lens of memory I watch
my dad, honorable truck driver and
extraordinary dancer, one night
in 1920's Rahway, NJ walk over
to ask a pretty woman to dance
and she says yes and he
tells her his name is Ed and she
tells him her name is Margaret
and they waltz to the sweetness
of "Always," the music leading
them in darkness, dancing and
dancing, my young father's arms
a muscular tenderness around her.
Maybe he knows, even then,
he will never let her go.


This poem first appeared in The Edison Literary Review.
Used here with permission.