Every Day We Are Dancers

It begins with the lewd macarena

each of us performs in the shower,

then the modified twist we are hip to

with that ever-absorbent partner, the towel,

and on to the funky chicken of stepping into underwear,

the shimmy of stretching into hose.

There is no music, none that anyone

can hear, yet no one can escape the boogie.

Outside beneath the disco ball of the Sun

no one is a wallflower, not even the two lugs

in the crosswalk lugging a huge mirror,

one at either end pressing his cheek

into the cheek of his own reflection, arm

extended, hand clasping his own hand in a tango

more about control than passion, one couple

leading himself forward, the other slide-stepping

backwards across the intersection made double

by the infinite burden they shoulder together.

At the entrances of buildings even those afflicted

with two left feet find grace with a stranger

in a revolving door, where, regardless of gender,

we share a pause and glance to communicate

who will lead, who will follow,

close to each other but never quite touching.