Stories Molly Could Tell

I'm sure she thinks I've lost
it, my arms and legs twisting
and turning, my hips swiveling,
my head moving up and down
like some bobblehead Jim Morrison
wannabe, dancing my ass off to L.A. Woman,
taking her face in my hands and kissing
her as she sits, confused and interested,
on the couch, her long pink tongue
entering my ear and swiping
my chin. This is a human
she does not know, the one who dances
without shoes, without abandon
in the living room, Emeril muted
in the background, my body a whirling
dervish, thinking nothing of my age
or how bad my knees will hurt later,
just wanting, in that space, late afternoon
light filtering through the lace curtain,
to be that long-legged, honey-haired girl
who never got high but had her share
of Boone's Farm, who spun herself in yards
and dance halls, who wore halter tops and bell
bottoms, who laughed freely on occasion,
who married young and loved her family well,
who will never look that way again, but who feels
all is right as she spins once more around
the floor, kisses her dog, and works her frenzy
into the softness of Riders On The Storm, her body
grateful for this slow part of the story that is her life.