Musings by The Poet Loriet
I Can Do Can To
Journey's "Open Arms" bleeds
from our tiny office radio
making my heart ache
as I recall junior high dances.
That was THE slow dance song.
I was an awkward pre-teen wallflower;
tall, shy, skinny, no breasts...
I sat and watched dreamily
as the popular kids clung to one another;
the few, the proud, the future prom kings.
They suavely approached the pretty blondes,
their jean pockets full of testosterone,
the giggling girls who knew what to say
to make the mysterious boys
throw their heads back in laughter.
I envied the way they placed a warm hand
on the delicate small of the girl's backs
while the other hand absentmindedly
stroked their long beautiful curls.
I never got asked to dance.
Boys could sense my shyness
as prominent as the common cold,
all except for one equally shy
Vietnamese boy named Can To
who was tall, lanky and wise
beyond his fourteen years.
He was quiet, academic,
didn't fit in just like me,
one of the proverbial "nice boys,"
probably currently the CEO
of a little-known company
called "Reebok".
He would always pace the room,
lingering near the bench I kept warm
until one of the last dances of the year.
That day, I'd spent hours at a girlfriend's.
We curled each others hair,
brushed our teeth with baking soda
to make them "extra-white"
and tried to figure out
the intricacies of
eyelash curlers.
Can To finally approached me,
speaking three words directly into my ear,
"Want to dance?"
My heart skipped a beat
as I saw him in a new light.
He would be "my first".
We danced to Journey, stiff-armed
and sweaty, avoiding each other's eyes,
nothing special about it,
yet I went home with a souvenir smile,
finally something to report to my parents,
"I danced with a BOY!"
I never spoke to him except
for a hoarse-whisperer "yes"
response to those three little words
spoken hastily in a crowded gym
under a canopy of crepe paper streamers,
yet I would forevermore
reflect upon that night
as he brushed by me in the hallway
at our small-town high school
hiding behind his stack of books.
I don't think
he even remembered my name.
Lori Beal
from our tiny office radio
making my heart ache
as I recall junior high dances.
That was THE slow dance song.
I was an awkward pre-teen wallflower;
tall, shy, skinny, no breasts...
I sat and watched dreamily
as the popular kids clung to one another;
the few, the proud, the future prom kings.
They suavely approached the pretty blondes,
their jean pockets full of testosterone,
the giggling girls who knew what to say
to make the mysterious boys
throw their heads back in laughter.
I envied the way they placed a warm hand
on the delicate small of the girl's backs
while the other hand absentmindedly
stroked their long beautiful curls.
I never got asked to dance.
Boys could sense my shyness
as prominent as the common cold,
all except for one equally shy
Vietnamese boy named Can To
who was tall, lanky and wise
beyond his fourteen years.
He was quiet, academic,
didn't fit in just like me,
one of the proverbial "nice boys,"
probably currently the CEO
of a little-known company
called "Reebok".
He would always pace the room,
lingering near the bench I kept warm
until one of the last dances of the year.
That day, I'd spent hours at a girlfriend's.
We curled each others hair,
brushed our teeth with baking soda
to make them "extra-white"
and tried to figure out
the intricacies of
eyelash curlers.
Can To finally approached me,
speaking three words directly into my ear,
"Want to dance?"
My heart skipped a beat
as I saw him in a new light.
He would be "my first".
We danced to Journey, stiff-armed
and sweaty, avoiding each other's eyes,
nothing special about it,
yet I went home with a souvenir smile,
finally something to report to my parents,
"I danced with a BOY!"
I never spoke to him except
for a hoarse-whisperer "yes"
response to those three little words
spoken hastily in a crowded gym
under a canopy of crepe paper streamers,
yet I would forevermore
reflect upon that night
as he brushed by me in the hallway
at our small-town high school
hiding behind his stack of books.
I don't think
he even remembered my name.
Lori Beal
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I Can Do Can To
I Can Do Can To
