Barbara Kussow
Poetry
Dancers
Picture the pro at the Ohio Star Ball
body straight in tuxedo and perfect pause
the dancer’s required smile.
He is the antithesis of all that--
old and bent and bald with a spare
tire above the waist and flat hips lost
in loose, much washed, gray polyester pants.
He prefers one partner
not his wife who stopped dancing
after a stroke some years ago
If she doesn’t show, he leaves early
She would prefer a younger, taller
man who doesn’t laugh at his own jokes
but they like to talk and she can follow
his interesting, idiosyncratic style
She is prone to exaggerate her dance resume
the partners she had in grander days
but, still, he is surprisingly firm
and confident in his lead.
And they’ll keep meeting on Saturday nights
until one doesn’t come any more
or until she finds a partner
who is younger and taller.
Old Dancers
She will be ninety next October
He is ten years younger
I’m seated on his left
She on his right
Other dancers approach her sometimes
Much younger, gallant men
and a woman, a teacher
who likes to lead
Both are tall, sturdy people
more than carrying their age well
He learned to dance to please her
They’re a handsome couple on the floor
He likes to talk about their union
10 years now, both had cared
for other ailing spouses
less hearty souls then they
He tells many stories
always flattering, ingratiating to her
She sits silently watching, perhaps critiquing
the dancers as they whirl around the floor
I lean forward to touch her shoulder
“We’re talking about what a good dancer you are.”
“Hmmph,” she snorts. “He didn’t even
know me when I was a good dancer!”
She resumes her watch
and I am sure it is not he
nor the chess game he says they play every day
nor the young man now bowing before her
that keeps her moving through her days.