Dancing

I danced with you last tonight.
So rarely do I get to see your smile,
unrestrained joy written across your face
as you mimed the words to each song.

I turned the music louder
as I grew more and more tired,
only spurred by the immense bliss
I felt, twirling around
and glimpsing you in the mirror.

I used to dance among friends in the dark,
accompanied by their laughter, their movements,
and the occasional shadow.

It felt much the same,
only I had me as company
with my calico print
and thread-wrapped headphones.

It was nice to see the candor gaiety
when so often I only see the streaked
face, the hard lines, the absent mind.

Will you dance with me, again?

People-spotting

Men walk down the street,
clad in baseball caps and running shoes,
strutting like greater sage-grouses.

Women walk by in short dresses,
purses hanging lazily off their shoulders,
swaying with the breeze.

It’s quiet with the drawn out, calculated
steps of each passerby.

I sit and think about their movements —
the degree of the arm swing,
the angle of the smile,
the cadence of left to right.

I know someone who walks as if dancing,
an internal metronome pounding
out a beat to which they move.

Each step so deliberate,
each head tilt as if in prayer.

Others cannot help
but take notice of the rhythm,
side-eyeing and smiling,
aware that they too, enjoy dancing.