Shimmy

Ten

Mother would teach me a lesson

for wandering in after midnight

after closing time, after curfew

after “God only knows what...”

my punishment this time would be

the Pit, New Year’s Eve

with her husband, my father—or so she says—

although you and I

are nothing alike

your eyes are brown and bulging

wrinkled like linen

snagged by barbed wire brows

substantial bulbous nose

knotty, pointed chin

prematurely overgrown

with salt and pepper stubble

Nine

I stumble along behind you

eyeballs racing to the back of my head

the parking lot, lit by swirling cigarettes, is pitch

except where light pools in cracked asphalt

and bounces off spilled oil

I stall against your prized black Ford

leaning tower of apathy

you say nothing

and for once I am grateful

for your silence

I keep in tow

head down

blouse buttoned to the collar

Eight

the Pit is tiny windows, low ceilings, sparse decoration

sticky vinyl seats, thickly lacquered tables

dry with generated heat, coils ready to spring

sweat beading on the trumpeter’s forehead

dripping down the singer’s cheeks and

off the saxophonist’s wrists

over the lipsticked lips

of the girls who kiss the boys

headed for Krakow at dawn --

your music is breathing

alive

infectious

dizzying

delirious

hard to resist

Seven

merrymakers stage a mutiny

they reach for your hand and

you reach mine

and suddenly we are dancing, dancing, dancing:

Charleston, Jitterbug, Foxtrot, Swing—you know them all

Six

I head to the bar

grab us a few beers

muscle my way to our corner table

where the only trace of you is a crisp cocktail napkin

and a limp Gin Fizz

your smile surprises me

like an old friend walking through the kitchen door

unannounced

after 15 years --

I never knew

you could Shimmy

with one leg

Five

from the dance floor that distant smile of yours

radiates more heat

than the heating duct

blowing stale air

down the nape of my perspiring neck

Four

in need of a second wind

I sip the first cold beer

and then the second

watching you

shimmy-rock

around the clock

Three

suddenly

it’s 11:59 p.m.

and

I

am

making

my

way

to you

through

the

rambunctious

crowd

and

I

am

afraid

I

will

not

reach

you

in time

I have wasted so much already

Two

Late

the clock strikes 12

midnight ushers in

Auld Lang Syne

and a rainstorm of confetti

kissing couples

blasting noisemakers

billowing balloons

rowdy applause

for what has come to pass

and what is yet to come --

your eyes find mine

through the merriment

and you are looking

right at me

smiling, nodding

raising a pretend champagne glass,

toasting the New Year

One

I smile back,

raising a toast

to my father

***

Copyright © 04/16/1993 by Christy Munson. All rights reserved.