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My Private Dancer
 


See this smile upon my face
which my dear man has placed there?
We two have a secret
but a wee bit I will share.

Financially, we've nothing,
our purse holds zip, dash, zero.
He couldn't buy a present
but instead, my Ches, my hero

danced for me, an exhibition,
oh yes, my private dancer,
once a cossack fast foot worker
now arthritic old romancer.

To the strains of Abba's music,
Fernand (also called Fernando),
he flung himself around the room
like a well balanced, accurate torpedo.

Uncaring of his damaged knees,
his body swayed and swirled;
his eyes and mine together fixed,
lost in our own private world.

The haunting music touched my heart,
tears of joy I could not stop.
I knew his knees would trouble him
but he'd dance until he'd drop.

Silently I stood
and reached to him my hand.
He took it, gently kissed it,
the dance was over, as if planned.


Thank you, my Ceslovas.







By cherryk

© 2018 cherryk (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Tuning It Up (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Tuning It Up (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Tuning It Up (challenge has been closed)


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