its true about the ice
that you can't see how and exactly
when it becomes that slippery
slide that bumps you into the sides
of streets and students slates between
the cities and the songs
we used to sing in crowded
arenas with hand-knit scarves
and grandma's hats, perhaps
her sunglasses, more likely
her joy in watching someone
bust ass on the slippery
ice on a northern Queens
still frozen night.
She told me she once danced
at the Roseland Ballroom
when it was still this, a ballroom.
I told her I danced there
too but not like she did
and that I was wearing
grandpa's scarf. And that
I fell and busted up my knee.
(She chuckled)
(I said that I meant to do that)
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