The Waltz by Amy Woodside

‘The Waltz’

At first he began to mix things up.
Put batteries in the remote control
backwards, strike matches

at the wrong end. He blamed it
on genetics, like everything else
wrong with his life

and would drink cheap beer
until he forgot her face

looking at him like a stranger.

After weeks of wearing pants
inside out and walking into doors,
he started to worry. At work

he began to to call people
by the wrong names, ask them
for ketchup when he really meant

staples, start sobbing
when someone shook his hand.

Humiliation was a galloping horse
he lay tied to, head hanging

upside down, and on this cruel
carousel he watched his world

spin. At night

he would spray shaving cream
between his fingers and toes,
rubbing the white foam

into his skin. It was the only thing
that made him feel better.

Then one afternoon
he found himself in an elevator

not knowing what to do.

All the numbers confused him,
coiling in strange shapes
with sharp edges, snarling

a secret language. So he pressed
all of them at once, the entire 36,
and when the elevator moved

he became carsick.

Let out into the the basement,
he breathed damp concrete
and gasoline.

The rats in the corner did not flinch
when he broke into song, his voice

limping through the dark
like a dying bird.

And by broken furniture
and too-full trash cans
he began to slow dance

with his sweetheart, hands
upon her warm waist, waltzing
to their favorite song,

perfectly in time.

Written by Amy Woodside of Flint’s Fire. Image above ‘Magic Mountain’ also drawn by Amy Woodside. xx