friday night

there is dust
on my shoulders from
the long week. I shake out
my hat
and sit down
in the kitchen chair.
the walls are yellow.
the calendar is a month
slow on the fridge.
I see myself in
the toaster as I bend
to take off
my boots. i could use
a shave, a newer face.
I turn on the radio,
grab a beer
and a cold half sandwich
still on a plate.
a song comes on,
just my imagination by
the temptations, I begin
to dance in my socks across
the linoleum
floor. I spin,
take a sip of beer, go
low, rise and spin again.
I can still dance.
I still have it even after
all these years.