She says I’m really shit at dancing
and that my moves embarrass her.
I search for suitable endorsements
but all her mates seem to concur.
They all agree that I am hopeless
and that I should vacate the floor.
They shake their heads out of frustration
but I suspect they want some more.
“This move was massive in the nineties,”
I clarify without a pause,
my forehead sweating like a bastard
as I break global dancing laws.
“I used to ‘give it large’ for England
back in those whistle-blowing days.
This move was massive in the nineties…”
She looks at me with eyes ablaze.
Aghast she stands amongst the chaos
as clubbers laugh and point at me,
my arms and legs assuming angles
considered cool in ‘93.
“The evidence is overwhelming,
I’ve got the rhythm in my genes…”
Aghast she stands amongst the carnage
as I revive old dance routines.