The Day the Music Came Back

First night in the hospital.

A loaded playlist

on my son’s iPod.

A gift of my favorite songs.

It creates a hive of music and medicine

in five-minute cells where I huzz

through hours, remembering.

I danced when I was ten,

twirling and twisting

on a sweep of Gene Kelly feet

umbrella in hand, suddenly

my driveway a Parisian street

raindrops keep falling on my head.

I danced in high school,

walk away, walk away, I will follow

in door slams, the creaking backing open,

the goodbye and hello, told in spiked hair,

in April winds which melt the punk.

I danced club floors in college,

to a polished sheen of club floor tile,

vacant, except for our alive—

you spin me right round baby right round

art in 130 heartbeats a minute

instead of class minutia at Loyola.

I danced my babies, soon

around the house on hips

singing silly songs

London Bridge is falling down

they laughed into hiccups.

Somewhere the music had stopped.

When did I forget?

I hope you dance.

I danced by the pool this morning

my dog watched, wary

from the other side.


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