MONEYLIGHT (1991)
Diane Wakoski (b. 1937)

Last night I danced alone
in my darkened living room.
Usually when I do this
I am rock 'n rolling, in a way I'd be
embarrassed to do
in public.  I dance alone
because that kind of dancing doesn't
require a partner, anyway.  But
last night, when I danced, I
held my hands as if they were on the
shoulder and holding the hand
of a man, a partner.
I dipped and swayed and pretended
my cheek was against his, that I was
at a dance.
That I was a different
person.
I was not happy with the thought of single dancing,
but I was almost happy, dancing with a shadow
man.  This is
The King of Spain, I thought.

My husband was upstairs in his room,
working on some project or watching sports
TV.  He came down once for a Coke
and smiled at me.  "Poor Diane," he said.
Didn't offer to dance.  Went back upstairs
and left me with my teenage music
and shadow man.

What middle age brings
is the knowledge you can never
be young again.  Oddly satisfying,
once you stop being sad.  You
can dance with the shadow partner
and not feel you have failed.  You can
dance alone and not think it's because
there's something wrong with you.  You
can invent a lover and not think
you are crazy.  You can make him say all the things
your husband or lovers never said, and he'll dance
when you want to dance, and when you are tired,
you can retire to bed with your book, drink a last cup of tea,
and fall asleep next to your kind husband who whispers,
"Poor Diane," and pulls you closer like a child
to assuage you, to hold you, to love you securely, as no father,
as no lover, even the invisible one,
ever has.

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