Dear God of Dancefloors

I know how you used to fear me.

How you once trembled at the approach

of this set of ten toes.

Your wooden ribs

cringing at the inevitable

prods and pokes

of these two ungraceful

flailsticks called legs.

I get it.

I too have been a dance floor.

Uneven, crooked,

and stepped all over

by ballerinas in stilettos,

by foxtrotters and Charlestoners

with more kick than caress,

by hokey-pokeyers and ring-around-the-rosyers

who turned my heartplanks

into splinters.

by drunkclumsy limbs

better suited for combat than elegance.

 

Dear God of Dancefloors,

much time has passed since my own feet

have wreaked havoc upon your surface.

You have likely grown comfortable

with the cease fire of my feet.

In my sober,

I have hovered on your edges,

too uncertain to set foot onto your timbers.

 

But guess what, motherfucker!

I learned recently that I can dance sober just as awful as I do drunk,

And what I lack in talent

I make up for in grace.

What I lack in grace,

I make up for in courage.

What I lack in courage,

I make up for in pure “don’t give a shit.”

Now watch these feet move.

I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.

I’ve still got all my old steps down.

I’ve got the hipster hip stir.

I’ve got step stomp step stomp.

I’ve got the broken-glass tip-toe.

 

 

Dear God of Dancefloors,

you better fear me.

You better quake.

You better get ready for the hurt that I will inflict upon you.

This is about to get biblical,

Because these feet are going to keep moving until the music ends and the music doesn’t end until these feet stop.

Amen.

 

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