A Flying Saucer of Ice Cream Is Not Good Enough
A poem written after the Biden debate
A messy-haired couple smoke a blunt on the porch of the
karaoke club next to the gym. Maybe they’ve been up all
night shit-faced and singing after the debate. It seems better
than the screens I mashed my face into spoon feeding myself
Cherry Garcia and Chocolate Fudge Brownie in a bowl as big
as the mini flying saucer I will soon need to escape the planet.
I made it to Zumba. The teacher has hay-colored hair with bleach
streaks. She’s my favorite. She also gave me Covid once. She
was coughing hard as I danced next to her. But I couldn’t step
away. The moves were too good. She’s a waitress at a beach-side
restaurant on the gulf, where servers walk through sand to deliver
trays. Once, she told us she choreographed a dance while tripping
her balls off. People searched faces to see if she was serious. I never
get bored. So I keep coming back.
Mambo, cumbia, bachata. No Twist and Shout BS. Class is sparse:
10 instead of 20, mostly retirees. A man in a bowling shirt, blows
a whistle and yells hey ho. A back-step then a pause. I’m stuck with
the arms. No more ballet hands, I need salsa swagger. A flick of
fingers, feet on the beat. Everybody in south Florida seems to know
a little salsa. It’s what we brush our teeth to, despite what happens
the night before. I copy the teacher, but keep missing. Close my eyes instead, dance whole sequence instantly, all steps by heart. My feet
find their way.
Someone holds the door open on the way out.
That’s enough for one morning, he says.
Yes, I agree, waving at all the flavors,
hand still in rhythm.
