Dancing Like Fred Astaire
The discovery at aged seventy
Explained to me at last
The source of my problems
From way way back in my past.
Not just a clumsy country idiot,
All my life there’d been a cause,
A condition called Dyspraxia
Had me firmly held in its claws.
With the rhythm of a stick insect
Feet that didn’t act like a pair
But with a few glasses of Pils
I became a teenaged Fred Astaire
And the lovely leggy Helga
Seemed to think so as well
As though that dance floor
Held us under its certain spell.
He would sit in the bar
Through the open door
As I squired his wife
On that little dance floor.
Nineteen sixties style dancing
Bodies seldom came in touch
But when dancing with Helga
That didn’t matter very much
Just the flaring of her skirt
Could set me on fire.
Heinz was a friend and
So I reined in any desire.
Blonde Helga would whisper
Tomorrow night he’s on shift
Wait around the corner and
I’ll come and give you a lift.
Come and visit our house
We can grab the chance
To practice alone.
Our own special dance.
But, Heinz was a friend,
A big daft trusting bloke
So I just treated it all
As an ongoing joke.
We would still chat
And we would still flirt
As I treasured every glimpse
Provided by her flaring skirt
Enjoying those hours when
My feet, that unmatched pair,
Helped me In my mind
To dance like Fred Astaire.
The days weeks and months
Moved inexorably on
And my time at the regiment
Was finally gone…
One dance with Helga
Became our very last,
She disappeared from my life
To beome a memory from my past.
Copyright © Terry Ireland | Year Posted 2022
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