Forty-something, newly single,
I climbed the grand stairway
to the dance hall, cowboy
boots clipping each wooden step,
short skirt swishing.
A tall, lean gentleman, shirt pressed,
white hair combed back, took hold of me,
eyebrow raised, saying Quite a risk you’re taking,
giving yourself over to a stranger. Yet he proved
he could guide me and I surrendered
like letting go on a swing.
We caught each other’s eyes
as we turned and he was generous:
Try a little smaller step
Keep your hand strong with mine
as we danced an Irish reel, then a Cajun shuffle.
We were about to part when he turned back
to me with the first notes of the fiddle, Oh please,
his hand still lightly holding mine,
let me enjoy a waltz with you.
Like a steersman adjusting the tiller
and bringing in the sheet,
he let me come up on the wind,
giving me one perfect waltz
that could be well remembered
and even in its remembrance
could be counted among
the cures for loneliness.