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.