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100 Meters; On the Ending of a Favoured Thing

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The Last Waltz

Lost to memories of place and time, dancers relate, fail to  continue. Lost, the ending of a a journey. Dance the car boogie. Tell me about the last time you danced?

100 Meters; On the Ending of a Favoured Thing

Fat, flushed, flash and funky
You handled movement
Like a disco master
knowing when to stop
whilst she lurched
from crisis to crisis
Locking three doors behind her
In a never ending labyrinth
Of confusion and no clarity

Another track of rhythm
Pulled your feet to the floor
Braking, clutching, moving
Through gears fast and slow
It didn’t matter you were shaking
Injected by fuels feeding the dance action
As the arena filled and emptied
leaving two together to tango
Sore and wounded

Our batteries flattened
The lights came up
The pattern of travel homeward
Before crashing into the scrap yard
All that distance covering fun or disaster
Turning to find a blue driving wheel
To a butter field
Heading East, returning West
At the setting of a final sun

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Colin

The last time I dance was at a Barefoot Boogaloo event run by a friend – wonderful music, wonderful rhythms. Painful but infectious I can’t get enough of the freedom dance brings. The dance of life you describe in your poem sounds a tad more hairy, though Rich