Hands in his pockets, shoulders slouched
to draw all that he is to himself, he leaves
no faults exposed, no sign that he has come
for any reason of his own to this gym,
this concrete-lined box decked out
in tinsel and lights that glow,
as if it too must live in mystery.
She hovers near the punch bowl,
her eyes darting between couples
twirling on the court-turned-dance floor,
her flat shoes keeping the music’s pulses
under a skirt the length they wore last year.
If he were a poet, he might write lines
about her violet eyes, the way her dark lashes
flutter behind her thick lenses,
a promise of the beauty she will grow into.
But she, not one to wither, strides
through the crowd, her limp locks bouncing,
her back straight, her head held high.
When she taps the football captain’s shoulder,
her smile transforms a dandelion to a sunflower,
their bold dance the stuff of jealous whispers as he
keeps his solemn place against the wall.
April 19, 2013