My friend asked me to apartment-sit during his vacation.
I was happy to oblige.
Instead of my postage-stamp-sized studio,
His apartment had rooms…and, overlooked the ocean.
Most of all, I loved his huge Bay Window,
With plush cushions and a wonderful view two stories above the scene below.
As he left, with my blessings, I imbibed in a warm cup of tea,
And a seat on the Bay Window. I could stretch.
I noticed a small wood-framed house built on the rocks below.
I had not noticed it before; but, it had a nice redwood deck
Outside a sliding glass door. The deck was surrounded by an Assortment of flowers.
The next morning, I chose coffee, and went to the plush cushions
To enjoy the salt water hitting the rocks, and fragmenting into an Aerosol of sea mist.
The window had two small panes that I opened on each side…to smell The salty aroma.
But; to my amazement, she was there on the redwood deck.
Her hair was true blonde, shoulder length.
She wore a pleated skirt…off-white; and, a sweater of the same color,
Draped across her shoulders and blouse, held in place by a silver Sweater clip.
I felt like a “Peeping-Tom” but; I was within my rights at the Bay Window.
I had to watch her magnificent form as she twirled and moved her body As any woman would envy…
And she danced.
I was mesmerized by her abilities. Not being a dancer myself.
Her movements seemed choreographed; but, what did I know.
Her face would launch two thousand ships and make Helen jealous.
I moved to putter about the apartment doing menial chores,
And she danced.
By the time I returned to my “nest” of sorts, she was gone.
I took my eyes off the deck, and sipped my coffee, Secretly lighting a cigarette.
As I tried to disguise the cigarette odor, I raised my head to blow My smoke out the open window; and, there she was.
She walked around the flowers; touching each,
And turning to look directly at me,
She cupped her hand and blew gently; yet,
I smelled Roses and Lilacs, billowing to me as one would
Sniff a prime wine. It overpowered the smoke
Of my cigarette. Of course, it was then I knew. She knew I was observing her; and, she was not upset.
And she danced.
I could not tell if she wore platform or ballet shoes;
But they seemed bejeweled as she would twirl and pirouette before me.
She smiled continuously at me,
And I must admit, I was smitten. She moved around the deck
As if it were glass.
And she danced.
She made time dissipate. My friend returned;
And I summoned him to the window.
“Look at this”, I said as an old woman exited the sliding-glass door. I must have appeared to be in shock.
“That’s Minerva, he said,” as the older woman began to tend her flowers.
“What happened to the gorgeous blonde dancer?” I asked.
My friend told me the unimaginable, as he didn’t believe I had seen her.
She had tragically tripped as she danced in the early 1950’s,
Stretched her arms. Her hands were abraded as she tried to stop her Fall;
But, her head hit a rock and sustained a lethal wound.
Her name was Cheyenne, and she died…
As she danced.
Years go by in decades as minutes traverse the clock;
And, often I would think or dream of Cheyenne,
And she danced.
I was in my hospice bed; an old man, struggling to breath his last.
As my neurons quit firing, I plunged into oblivion;
But, In a moment of triumphant will, I finally touched Cheyenne…
And we danced.
