Alas, they’re gone.
It’s gone—
the rhythm, that is.
Now confined to the corners of the kitchen,
in slippers and jim-jams,
sporadic bursts of more senior shapes…
slightly stiff, stilted, stompy.
Far from those moves of yesteryear:
that effortless cool,
the endless energy,
and those hips
(that waistline!)
Nifty footwork,
and hands that knew
what hands should do—
pulling moves – not muscles,
on a Saturday night.
Oh, that hedonistic bygone era—
dancing around handbags in hot-pants and heels,
strutting one’s stuff on those hallowed sticky floors:
at The Electric Ballroom,
at Madam JoJo’s,
worshipping beneath the gleam
of the giant glitterball.
Where did it go?
Where did she go?
And why?
One would assume it were like riding a bike;
jump right on and—whoosh—off you go…
But no. Not in my case.
The encroaching years, those encroaching pounds—
out of step and out of breath…
chaotic choreography,
and dodgy direction—
the drunk aunty at a wedding classic,
but hey—who’s watching?
And so it goes:
I’ve forgotten how to dance—
except in my head, that is.
Que sera, sera.
©emmalumsden 17/02/26
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