A school carnival:
swept in a wild, laughing throng
we push through gym doors.
Heads bent like flowers,
a giggling daisy chain,
girls walk with arms linked.
"Hey, it's your birthday!
I'll request a song for you!
Do you like Footloose?"
Like popcorn we bounce,
squealing as one breaks away,
rushing the DJ.
Twenty five years pass.
My daughter's hand rests in mine
like a rose petal.
Heads cocked birdlike hear
strains of "Footloose" and laughter
drift over schoolyard.
"What's that funny sound?"
I say, "An old song," but think,
"It's me. I'm fifteen."
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