January 24th, 2011


Another poem from the swimming pool


She swings her hair. It seems an extra limb.
Her head moves. Her calm thinking face
is still. Her feet step fast. There is a space
between her and her man. It's not for him

she thrusts and pivots. It is for the blues,
its fast grave gaiety, its mood-filled chords,
its sense that suffering has sweet rewards
joy does not. And she stamps her high-heeled shoes

and moves her body, and she swings her hair.
A spirit moves her and it is her own
And on a crowded floor she'll dance alone.
Her thoughts are inward. Nothing else is there.

Her dancing mood and melancholy mind
have left all but the sweet sad song behind.