Last Dance

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                   I sit, aged twenty-five, in a leather

                   reclining chair, and think of Rosemary

                   Bunt, the sole black girl in our eight-grade class.

                   She had pig-tails when I first met her,

       in Kindergarten. She went to the

       principal’s office often. At the year end ball,

       towards the last dance, she dragged me by the arm

       from my lonely quarters in the hall,

       to the gym and onto the dance floor.

       I didn’t see, at the time, I was alone.

                   She left me on the floor. No explanation.

                   I, at last, looked occupied sipping punch.

Comments (1)

Posted by Terry Collett 01-06-2008 05:02,   ... Good poem.   » Report this comment to administrator » Reply to this comment...

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