Mood Indigo
When I am too old to tickle, your fathering falters,
and at a loss for what to do next, you tell me tales
about your dancing days: soft-shoe, tap - waiting
for your turn to audition, hanging out
with other chorus boys back-stage Broadway, your face
flushed as you explain how your bottom got pinched
once or twice by guys you guessed might be too young
to shave. You take me to wild parties in Greenwich Village,
fuggy dance halls in Harlem, your sheepish grin at the near
scandal - the sexy black woman you said once, in your cups,
might have been my mother, which sent a jolt through
our kitchen at suppertime. You drop the names
of the sultry singers: Ivy Anderson, Lena Horne, Billie
her white gardenia - the scent of it filling
our living room. You pull out a scratched 78 of the Duke;
put on Mood Indigo, and start to gentle me around in time,
promise to teach me the Fox Trot - hands down, the easiest
dance of your generation, to teach, to learn.
Talking about the Duke lights you up, makes you forget
your sad remedial English class.
You take me round the waist, count out the beats,
hum the tune in my ear, your aftershave still strong
despite the five o'clock shadow on your cheeks, your chin,
as we move around the floor avoiding chairs,
throw rugs, the coffee table, the glass with your second or
third Jim Beam on the rocks, waiting nearby.
