The End of the Dance
I found my husband’s apron
locked in a mad embrace
with my favorite blue sweater.
I could tell by the rumpled effect
of their dance
that they had twirled long and hard
‘round and ‘round ‘til they were wet.
What first seemed playful
jostling in the current with the others
became a rough entanglement,
an arm had been twisted
in his long denim sash
until all shape had been squeezed
from its delicate blue appeal.
They were so caught by the machinery
of the music that played them
that its very core was undone.
Overalls and aprons
cannot twist and circle
again with this rich beauty
that delights the eye when
fluffed until every crease is softened,
unless some trick that only poets know
allows their close embrace again,
upon the dance floor
they are through.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 03-07-2000).]