Tonight in the park I was reminded of
the first waltz I attended, dancers turning
across the floor in orchestration, lights
low, the beauty of being young, trying not
to be, in our dinner jackets and dresses,
our parents’ cars polished,
parked outside, still ticking in the heat,
unaware this dance was a rehearsal,
to what it wasn’t clear, the movement felt
so free, endless, so much like the point
around which the entire planet orbited,
just as tonight people strolled in twos in Paris
picnicking in groups, laughing with their tongues,
lounging on chairs together—waiting for a chance dip
in light, like the lovers entwined near the empty kiosk
cooled by mists set off every ten minutes on timers,
a hiss of water meant for many, but now it’s just
them in the deep green shade of the trees,
those chaperones of love’s necessary discretion,
eventually it will be all of us turning and turning
out of a final cool night, we hope together, or in
twos, but it may be alone, we need each other
to face that fact, even on a night like this.
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From The Park by John Freeman. Published with permission of Copper Canyon Press. 2020.
