He kicks high, jumps, spins,
kicks again. The duke is sixty,
doesn’t know it — his knees work.
Gray beard, gold tee, green shorts,
skinny legs fish-belly white, he swirls
across the lawn, purple cape
floating up with twang of guitars
from the summer city park band.
I keep time in a low chair,
swig water bottle, half gin, grin,
drool as I sip. He goose-steps
my way, mimes Bojangles —
tears of fifteen year… his dog
up and died. Lap-danced by royalty,
I begin to believe old Bo
had nothing on this sexagenarian
even if all county fair were tallied.
The song ends, duke stands statued
in damp grass, cloak wrapped tight,
He flashes a grin. I fear briefly
it is death I breathe in.