Rush

We were all
Too young for this kind of dance.

I sat there
Wondering what was the matter with the rest of the world.

I wished I could
March back to last summer,
Or the summer before that,
Or the summer before that.
Play paper dolls with shepherdesses
Or tear down dams in branches.
Remember the smell of Bond Street,
Remember floating lightly around the floor with Frank Curtis.

A rush of dances was something like that for other girls;

Their destiny.
It was settling for something awfully small and insignificant.
“You’re thinking.”
Yes. I was thinking.

We’re all
Too sour for this kind of dance.

Nobody else our age is here.

I know it. But look at my bones.

I don’t get it.

It was a joke.

The college boys sat down on the grass.

I thought ‘There’s no privacy here.’
Teaching us outrageous, kidding things.

I thought it was fun because I understood it.

A couple summers ago,
We’d slipped out and sneaked all the stuff out the back door
And kindled a fire without waking anybody up.
Silent.
Still scary.
We’d nearly jumped out of our skins.

Walking along in the dark.

Something abstract.
The unknown.

The rush.