If I could still dance
I’d dance a pavanne to coax back
my recently lost cheer and gumption — 
I’m sure they’re still nearby,
just barely out of reach.

If I could sing as I once did
I’d holler a big band blues shout
five times the size of my latest defeat,
and I’d drown out the whimpering
I left in the dust around it.

I can’t dance or sing anymore; 
it’s a pity that every trick in my book
was dependent on those lost skills.  Living well,
they say, is fine revenge.  Trust me,
it’s not as good as actual revenge,

which is a harsh word 
for the moment I’m in
but it’s a harsh moment.  
I want a little revenge on age,
just to still its laughter.  Just to ease

the ache of the memory
of singing and dancing and abandon
and calling them both “the answer
to a bad week.”  I’m out of such answers now,
though I can still hum and tap my foot a little

and that may have to be enough now — 
the ability to follow along
when some are living well.
Alive, responding, remembering;
it will have to be triumph enough.