The Posture Of Dancers

I'm a sucker for good carriage, the elegant rhythm of movement through any medium. The dance department, as is usual, was under the umbrella of the theater department and I met some of those people, the dancers, at Mesa State. Kaylee, in jeans, made my heart swoon. I had to sit down and remember to breathe. The trope is: movement, through music, to words. Thought about this for hours, contained within my cocoon, a black Chrysler Sebring, a comfortable ride that actually made me feel I was in the Secret Service, or some clandestine organization that sacrifices baby skinks on the fourth of July. I was confused, but the windows were tinted. I often just sat in the car, replayed a recent scene in my head, wondering what people thought they were saying. And who was I to judge, clearly a ringer. Double Round Bobs. If you want to do something right, hire a couple of Hungarians. If you study the batting averages, you'll see what I mean. At the pub today, watching NCAA women's softball, we watched a lady steal home. Not an easy feat. She beat out an infield hit, and stole the other three bases. Amazing. I remain fleet, mobile, go where I need to go, as often stopped by a particular bloom, as any mandate of where I should be, but I could never steal home. Maybe once or twice, a wild pitch, a situation where the ball hits the ground and skips away. No one ever tells you everything, there's always the closet, and a final corner.