My Father Is A Dancer
by Darren Stone

My father was middle-class post-war suburbia.
Practical and honest
Sensible and strict.
Faithful, brilliant and tough on the boys.
Chores and church and chores and chores,
A busy life without a dance.

My father never did the Foxtrot,
The Two-Step or Rumba.
Never kicked up his heels
Or cut a rug.
No disco nights, no ballroom floor,
No Twist, no Glide,
No Cotton-Eyed Joe,
"You kids tell your friends you have work to do."

Strong greasy engine hands,
And a mind tuned for math.
A friendship with wire
And blades and bolts and drivers and spares
And rakes and shovels
And nails and beams.
He watched dancers on TV once
Then went to bed early
And dreamed of tomorrow's work.

Suddenly I am his age, and he is gone.
But I see him more than ever
Now that his chores are finished.
I tell him the stories of the blondes and brunettes
And the redheads.
He fumbles with my pain but he knows.
"You just love so hard, boy."

Sometimes we go hiking.
I march up the mountain behind my house,
Dad steps down from the sky,
And if the sun shines just right
I can see him at the crest:
A modestly plump man
Twirling elegantly,
Romantically,
As he waits for his wife.

Spinning on his tiptoes, rocking on his heels,
He stops -
Looks down at me with my own eyes,
And reminds me,
"This is how you dance."

My father is a dancer now.
Dancing for himself
And anyone who sees.