in seventh grade I attended each dance
inside long low linoleum back hall
we called the “lobby”. Did “Buffalo Stance”
then play? Or “Pump the Jam up”? Who recalls?
In dark stretching space much peppered by sounds
and swimming pinpoints of white, red, green light
some four or five we formed a huddle round.
A freckly narrow face, hair tidy tight
(on all sides combed just right).
He says a cool girl who once attended
our school with us but lives now in a town
quite near, though far from where we all blended —
we hundred kids on Main Street walking down
(to yellow-brick high school bound).
a skinny blond girl winter-pale chin sharp
in pegged jeans, collared blouse, white socks, red Keds.
one-armed side-hugs for familiars. Smiley arc
quick nick to me who’s new to her sweet head.
A swirl of beats and moves, of fluttered eyes
and wond’ring hearts. “Cool move!” she grins surprised.
It was like you jump down onto your hands and kick your legs out to both sides. Kind of dangerous in a crowded dance hall, actually. And maybe it was more like she just requested the move again, that she might better admire it. Who remembers? Vague, wispy recollections of piecing together a reality from various scraps of input interior and exterior.