on ‘The Dance of Life’ by Andrew Sibley
Why did we think we’d know
how to do the dance?
Our feet struggle not to slide
down the dance floor – even solid wood
beneath our soles
is subject to vertigo.
Despite our measured steps
(careful not to trip each other)
the dance prescribes pink for girls,
blue for boys, and that we play the game
of the night, adult time.
Only a few of us will make it,
held centre of the wheel,
balanced on a loadstone
of love,
while others fare less fortunate
in the random dance:
the puzzled frown, questioning brow,
faces blind to each other,
the force of passive fury, where hatred
(yes, even that) drives her hand to his face,
and stiffened fingers point to ambition
and no-one is together -
the dance floor tilts
with the loneliness
of couples.