Standing at the edges
17th December 2008
I enter the room, hear the tunes
With folded arms, I try to stay calm
I see beauty, sitting waiting for me
Waiting to be asked. Well, probably.
But - here's the thing - we're scared.
We're back in the nightclub, teenaged.
We know they'll say yes
We know they'll smile at us
We know we'll enjoy this
And still we freeze leant against the wall.
The planchador is hidden in us all.
We know it's silly, we've been here before.
Mostly, they want to be out there on the floor.
But - here's the thing - "mostly" isn't "always"
And there's a smidgen of doubt in us.
So we stand and watch and wait
(Are we being Cabaceo'd by that lady?)
As they sit and watch and wait
(Is she really looking at me?)
And then, suddenly, it changes - and it's good
We simply ask, off the wall
No thought, no agonising - just walk forward
Walking's Tango, after all
Then - here's the thing - she tells you
"I've wanted to dance with you for ages"
"At the Milonga, everyone sees everything"
(It means, we see them, they see us)
You know but keep forgetting the meaning
(That they feel, they worry, just like us)
So here's the thing - just ask.
What's the worst that could happen?
- David Bailey, 17th December 2008