Through Dancing
Sat down to write, but I’d rather dance.
Shake hips nonsensically turn silly and embarrassing
to most men. To put his self out there like that.
Write that, so it can be read out loud later.
Wiggle shoulders reach arms out straight
aiming an accusatory finger at nothing. 

 I would rather write about the man who spoke to me
out walking two miles on a day so hot we were told to stay inside
“Is that good exercise?”
he had to ask, like he did not know.
So many short little lines decorated his face  squinted in the sun,
pitted like the side of a strawberry. He assured me his dog doesn’t bite.
Promised stranger to a stranger.

Took extra time to check his mail so he could speak to me. He did.   
Watched him while I walked up the hill toward him.
Like the road was a dancefloor and the summer wind was music.
I want to dance to it. Bright in my skin. Wet on my scalp.
Breathing steam like a train on track to derail my own self.

 I do not want to have to write it down.

Memories can be buried between pages like bodies forgotten to the ground. 

Art sits in a house all day waiting for the boy in the wifebeater
to pass by on his lunchbreak.

Poems you want lost can be written
through a pen.

Poems you write to find yourself in can be written
through dancing.