I wrote a poem on the subway this morning which I later deemed just too weird to post. So, feeling glum over the possibility of doing more than one draft poem a day, I spent much of the evening dancing. But dancing is just so great! It never fails to give you something!
What it gave tonight: another draft poem.
Dear Fred
Listening to Fred Astaire,
I feel that I could waltz on air,
my mind aloft in swirling swirls
of skirts and arms, top hats and twirls.
My heart is light, if movements less so.
(My tapping hits more heel than tiptoe.)
I clamber, but with grace and ease,
at least through my synaptic trees,
those nerve ends buoyed by Porter’s bubbles
to dance away a host of troubles.
Oh Fred, my hero bold and meek
who dances with me cheek to cheek.
So what you’re just a memory–
they can’t take you away from me.
As always, all rights reserved, and all suggestions welcomed.
I am linking this to Bluebell Books weekly submission re bubbles, since Fred is my favorite bubbly guy.
ManicDDaily 
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