STOMP

 
I could never dance
never move that smooth
I could never translate
the sound and feeling and motion
I felt
into anything but chaos.
A girl once broke up with me
and the last thing out of her mouth,
“Your life is a bumper-car ride.”

I remember the Dave Clark 5
on the oldies station
in my Dad’s Harvest Gold LTD.
There was a stomp
in those three-minute marvels
the sound of black Cuban boots
driving rhythm
into the wooden stage floor
they had harmony
they had poetry.

My stomp was more like King Kong
in a Saturday night swelter
rioting through a block of skyscrapers
lost
enraged
another ape
chasing the unreachable blonde
and aching for the home
that will never be seen again.