120. Flailing

Flailing.
Just…Flailing.
How the coming generation
Believes that it can dance
Perplexes me, considering
It only involves hands.
An elbowed twist,
A seizured jerk,
All standing in one place.
Some wooden tilts
At ten degrees –
The only change of pace.
What happened to that jazzy swing
Where the dance took up the floor?
Now the crowd must circle round
To make dancers seem more.
What ever happened to the ballroom,
Graceful conversation, body and soul?
Reduced to intimacy in a bounce
With hopes of making bed less cold.
Was it the music?
Was it the steps?
What made dance not what it used to be?
I’ve come to think
It’s tiring
To move the frame with tiny gears
Spun by a well-oiled crank.
Imagination is that crank,
And effort is its springs –
Which makes sense, considering
The newer age prefers a fling
Over a crafted, lasting thing
Because they are flailing.
Just…flailing.