He could have been a great one,
his mother always maintained;
an Astaire or Kelly, perhaps even
a Nureyev or Baryshnikov.
Well, I don’t know about that,
but he was a great party dancer.
When he got going on “Light My fire”
or “Jumpin’ Jack flash,” people just
backed away and gave him the floor.
The only thing he couldn’t do was
partner a woman. Strictly a solo act,
he either danced alone or didn’t dance.
I should know. I married him.
Once when he was working on a roof,
he fell and crushed both feet. “I doubt
he’ll dance again,” the doctor said.
But he did, right into middle age, then
stopped when he joined a church
that said it was a sin.
Now every morning when he gets out
of bed, he does a little soft-shoe shuffle as he
puts on his slippers, and hums a few bars of
a tune I can’t remember, or maybe never knew.=
I eat the days whole now,
I eat them alive,
all of them,
the good and bad of them,
the in-between of them,
the gourmet and garbage of them.
Nothing gets by me.
I strip the skin with my teeth
and devour the flesh,
gobble the gristle,
munch on the muscles and
crunch the bones,
then lick the plate clean.
There’s not a scrap left behind,
nothing to turn into compost
or take to the dump,
nothing to put in the freezer or
save for tomorrow’s lunch.
I’m as indiscriminate as a pig
because, you see,
having reached my three-score and ten,
I simply can’t afford to waste