Dad, You Shall Not Go To The Ball

I’ve never owned a pair of silver shoes.
Years ago I had some red ones.
That’s going back though. I danced in those
days. That was long before daughters and sons
were on the scene.

Now, of course, Dad dancing
is an embarrassment and I only
get up and boogie ‘Oh no, he’s prancing’
when I’ve drunk enough to forget how lonely
it is out there on the dance floor
where everyone gives my uncoordinated limbs
a wide berth and all my offspring
head for the Emergency Exits and doors
and claim not to know me. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Is that your Dad?’ They deny this.
Once, twice, thrice. Not nice.

I’ll be twerking next.
That should worry them.


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