Everything you’d want in a dance partner
was there in Betsy’s basement, Friday night
girl party, stereo blasting the Everly Brothers
or Shirelles, and you face to face
with a closet door, door shut tight, your hand
grasping the knob, feet starting to shuffle
1-2-3, 1-2-3, back step
Perfect rhythm, timing to die for.
When you pull away, the door stays tight,
giving the tension you long for.
When you come forward, it meets you
nose to nose, so to speak — or in your dreams,
lips to lips. On the beat. In the groove.
Shoo bop shoo bop, my baby, oooooo.
None of the disconnect in holding a real boy
in your arms – his awkward push and pull,
your mangled toes. Even when a slow dance
would play, how it felt oh so good,
but was always doomed to end up tangled
in those nagging lyrics:
Will you still love me…. tomorrow?