THE DANCE

I watched a man named Memo
dance to the sensual sounds of Cuba;
soul beats from the streets of New York;
Columbia oozing from his veins
like water from a fountain.

He looked at his woman the way I looked at you,
an electric connection that could not be denied.

They were one in a sea of choreographed waves
that roll to shore but only have impact
on a solitary grain of sand.

They were complete.

They were what once was.

They were us.


© JOHN PISCATELLA