At a Santa Rosa dance hall
through a throng of bodies
she twirls a Cajun melody,
in Zydeco rhythm, spinning,
soaring above the crowd
as if alone on a dark stage
with one single, solo spotlight
shining down upon her graceful beauty.
Tall and slender,
soft white skin,
her dishwater hair
just long enough to flap in the
breeze she makes
twirling across the wooden floor.
Long black dress,
sparkling silver sequins
reflecting off the lights,
she spins and swings in
grand and radiant
circles around the hall.
Her presence in this west coast wooden ballroom
suggests another age – World War II,
its men shipped off to the Pacific theater;
loved ones left behind to find joy
in an empty, forsaken world,
old men sit against the wall,
past the calling of war;
who had their Great War,
and now are left to wait.
They wait with this slender-legged darling –
queen of the wooden dance floor,
she will dance through the deaths of D-Day,
keep the flickering spirit from dying,
bring grace and sanity to this corner of a
world gone mad.
Tonight, I long to reach out for her
but I don’t dance so well,
I’m my own kind of wounded veteran;
I can only sit on a bench,
awestruck by the glorious light
shining from her tall, slender body,
her simple smile that cuts through the
chaos and destruction of another age.
She will forever be there on that floor
escorting the joy of the world through
troubled times; soft skin, deceptive
innocence; no one can give up hope
while she is still on the stage.
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