The music begins again.
You wallflowers who came
with the dance in mind
and empty hands to hold—
skulking along the fringe,
afraid to join in,
but more afraid to leave.
She comes.

You wither at her gaze,
hoping, not hoping
she is looking at you;
Would it mean more?
A joke, a fluke, a trick,
or perhaps a friend—
If you don’t see
will she leave?

Wallflower dancer
shaking and jiving
to your inner turmoil,
forgotten in the moment.
The hurly-burly,
the whispered nothings,
The hands!!  The places!!
Friendship?  More!?

You lock into a clock
ticking the circle
for its safety and
predictability.
Words ended, but
music endures.
She rests her head,
you stand up taller.

And then, wallflower,
the music ends.
How to extricate…
She’s gone.
Once more you puddle
to the fringe, and
skulk to the
potted chairs.

Friends there.
Claps on back.
You the man,
and Nice moves, Duckie!
You grin, take it in,
It was you,
and you know it’s true,
but it was her.