the dance class

Feet traipse in from the streets and the desks,

the to do lists, the deadlines

with the hope to find escape or something

like abandonment of sense and senses.

Shoulders tense and minds distracted,

blank eyes gaze, detracted and distant from

the moment- the instant with thoughts

in boxes and screens, holding glowing phone

faces screaming for attention, the ‘oh by the ways…’,

‘would you minds…’, and ‘did I mentions…?’

All vying to be seen by these traipsers

trying to be free.


Something calls

and bounces over

the top of the hunched escapees ,

quietly at first and with an ease

as natural as the heart thumping

a beat starts to drop

waiting for people to pick it up-

for feet weaving, bumping and grinding.

The wait isn’t long —

as the beats warm up,

kick in,

and surround,

toes start tapping, eyes crawl off the ground,

heady in the realisation that

this feeling’s sensation.

Without consulting the head,

feet and legs conspire,

wired by desire and need

not to be led but to lead

onto the pulsating dance floor

where the hips start talking,

hands sparking-

each move marking a fervid

rupture, far from the every day,

the salsa-soaked rapture

demands shakes and sways-

a language beyond words-

conversations between hands,

waists and shoulders

where impressions smoulder

and burn from the touch

– the room’s spinning

but intoxication’s not too much

but the perfect fill of the thrill of the yield

exposing the concealed.

Once glazed eyes now burn,

lips smile while bodies talk

in ones, twos, threes,

pausing for a breath,

fives, sixes and sevens

body hot, sweat on the brow

and the mind doesn’t know how-

not keeping up as the body

breaks the week down-

the heart bounds,

feet scrawl on the ground

all becomes a whirl

of wordless poetry

no reason but bodies rhyming

through beats and timing-

ecstatic and entranced.

The music stops.

you realise you didn’t do the dance-

you have been danced.