I miss the localized pain, where the box dug in

and satin stretched thin, in my feet and not

this full-chest heaviness. I don’t want to be in your club

anymore but once I so did, so wanted

to be swan-limbed and sharp – not puddling,

pleasant. In those years I mourned

whom I had never become but when

you can’t get new legs

you get a new pair of shoes

and a new dance.

Try dancing alone,

try dancing to music that’s not meant

for dancing and soon you’re in love

with Charles Trenet,

eyes closed like you’re fireside,

so warm you melt into the trumpet

and irreverent guitar.

He looks you straight through and starts

the sway, begging que reste-t-il

de nos amours ?

You couldn’t tell him, not over the charming needle

skipping and the soft glaze over his eyes.

Nothing about you is impressive

and thank God, because this song

doesn't need to leave this room.

Here, you can’t blame the sore feet

for the ache, but instead pull the weariness

around the room like a dog tugging his leash,

only (as the song goes) he’s a little French

poodle who is very unlike the other poodles.

He is happy to prance around the park, unthreatening;

happy to be small and not to bite.