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Duke of dance
He kicks high, jumps, spins,
kicks again. The duke is sixty,
doesn’t know it. His knees work.
Gray beard, gold tee, green shorts,
skinny legs fish-belly white, he swirls
across the lawn, purple cape
floating up with twang of guitars
from the summer city park band.
I keep time in a low chair,
swig water bottle, half gin, grin,
drool a bit. He goose-steps
my way, mimes Bojangles —
tears of fifteen year… his dog
up and died. Lap-danced by royalty,
I convert to groupie, know Bo
had nothing on this sexagenarian
even if every county fair were tallied.
The song ends, duke stills himself,
stands statued in damp grass, cloak
pulled over head, tight. I fear briefly
no breath will rush in.
(Published in Jeopardy) |
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JJ Boujrgault dancers
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