I saw him dance down crowded sidewalks
and never bumping into anyone —
even Astaire, Nureyev and Michael Jackson
would have been unable to pull that feat off.
I knew his name was Mel and that his hellos
and goodbyes were always sincere, but that’s
where my knowledge of him ended — this
scarcity I shared with the other apartment dwellers.
One Monday he literally danced and disappeared,
never to be seen here again — and I was surprised
how much I missed his soft music playing at night
and the soft dancing he must have done, alone,
on his living room floor — and when on occasion
I considered doing some dance steps to honor him,
my army of left feet forced me into surrender.
But I can walk the crowded sidewalks and never
bump into anyone either — a slighter talent, Mel,
I remain all too happy to thrust into oblivion’s face.