July 2024
Steve Klepetar
sfklepetar@icloud.com
sfklepetar@icloud.com
Author's Note: I think I inherited my skill as a dancer from my father, who once won a tango contest. “You won a tango contest?” I asked. “Well,” he said, “my partner’s father was the judge.”
Grandpa Al
My granddaughter teaches me to dance.
She tries, tracing an image of my shoes
onto white paper sheets. I try and try
to follow the steps as my wife doubles
over, laughing until she can hardly breathe.
“Stop!” she cries. “You’re killing me!”
My granddaughter is six. She is patient
but at some point she’s had enough.
”Sorry Grandpa, you’re just a bad dancer.”
My wife has finally caught her breath.
“So Lizzy,” she chuckles, “who’s a better dancer,
this grandpa or Grandpa Al?”
“Grandpa Al.”
“Oh”, my wife says,
“Is Grandpa Al a really good dancer?”
“I don’t know,” says Lizzy. “I’ve never seen him dance.”
The Bridge of One Hair
My father crossed the bridge of one hair.
He stumbled, a man over broken glass
going slowly into darkness.
I watched him as he raised one hand in salute.
Was he saying goodbye or gesturing to the unknown?
For years I’ve wondered at his passing,
how he stepped so carefully into that lake.
I wonder if he swam or if his legs
found purchase on the sand?
His voice comes back to me now,
telling stories about a man with a vicious dog,
a woman who wore a dirty coat,
a child who played with green marbles
as the cocktail party swelled around his little hands.
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