tucked away - a poem

what is it, you ask, with you,
meaning me, my arms flailing
to my internal music, dancing,
as if the center of everything
tangible, regretful, pathetic,

I do not know where it comes from,
this subjective tape recorder that keeps playing
through your talking, your excitations, hurrumphs,
it simply plays on, this dialogue too, of memories,
imaginations, things I sensed from when a boy,

suddenly I am the Fool whose journey
has ended, become wise by your countenance,
your frown, making aged wrinkles at your brow,
my dancing, ceasing,

when I was a baby in the belly
I was fed by heartbeats, mother's breaths,
the strains of Mahalia Jackson
beyond those fleshy walls,

perhaps Johnny Cash and Dino Martin
filtered through to me, just a corpuscule,

that is what's with me, I say,

again the music begins,
my toe taps at first to the tucked away rhythm,
soon my legs again prance and my hips begin to sway,
at full gyration, I recall Charlotte, at home,
us running, playing kick the can,

you shake your head at the holy fool,
your shadow receding now through the cracks
on the floor, around the corner, now gone