No Movement

A ballroom exists, a heavenly one with a perfect floor, wide as the universe is wide,
where the likes of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse
dance eternity away, never tiring, never out of breath,
no aching, no bleeding feet, no sprains, no strains,
the forever work ethic, the infinite practice,
dedicated completely to achieving the ultimate choreography.

Down here on earth, I watch the movies, a bit obsessively,
preserved for posterity, always an invitation there to get up and move yourself,
you too, dancing your Travolta days away until the one where you join them
and all the other hoofers who’ve earned entrance through that swinging doorway.

I’ve tried, you know, attended many a community education class,
even attempted the old shoe prints on the floor Arthur Murray method,
but I never could do it, didn’t have the talent, no grace in my movement,
that coordination necessary to prove my worth on the dance scene.

In the process of creating me, Nature left out the dancing gene.
So I’d better watch those stars dance while I can
because when I arrive, after stayin’ alive,
if I try to get in, I’ll be turned away,
never have a chance to see them anymore,
join the outsiders who couldn’t disco, waltz, or do the Carioca,
back here on earth, one of the two left feet damned.

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