At first, we circled each other, skittish
and awkward like fledgling dancers, our thin
smiles saying, “Well, isn’t this unbritish?”
We verge-trotters and road-crossers would win
the show though; with the clappers and hiders
cheering us on, we’d swish back by July,
antibodies tangoing inside us,
the curve tumbling, spent, from its showy high.
Now, it is autumn. Our side-steps are small,
our presentation lax - weak frame, no smile -
and weariness leaches through our top line.
The graph rises again - meanwhile we fall
back behind our masks, knowing all the while
that our dance might not end; we might not be fine.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter would be pleased to hear them.