Premier Danseur

Premier Danseur

 

My husband taught me to quickstep

when I was seventeen and he was

 twenty-two,

the kind old fool broke into dance

whenever the mood would strike

 

Now, with his head on a pillow and

his feet covered with a blanket

He can dance no more.

The flawless people gather as

 the tray fills rapidly with mass cards.

 

 I stand winded, exhausted,

I yearn for the dances.

The young people smoke outside and have

friends to dance with tonight while the priest

 

 has his long table to dine on this evening.

My premier danseur is still.

Someone asked me to recall the last

dance with him,

it was calm yet painful,

 

as his feet slowly shuffled against the floor,

He whispered something incoherent but with a

lovely tone as I gently place him

back on the bed, I remembered his smiling

 

eyes, I saw through to his rising soul.

Kind words were spoken as the casket was closing.

My premiere danseur is still.