Gene Kelly

I never danced. I come from the country
of Gene Kelly and anything less
than exceptional would be an insult
to the memory of the East Liberty boy.
I too grew up there and so there is
a frustrated dancer in my blood. My body
rains and sings and my body keeps
still. Kelly looked like a fullback and approached
dance like one too. He moved beautifully
but there was real violence in each step.
He might take you to bed or punch you in the gut.
It could go either way. Ask Leslie Caron. Ask
Frank Sinatra. There’s a fountain outside
the library in East Liberty. The water runs red
with rust in Gene Kelly Square and sometimes
a block over at Kelly’s Bar I drink myself
into red oblivion. It’s what we do here. Dancing,
drowning. Some say this is the Paris of Appalachia.
My dad remembers Paris as the dirtiest city
he had ever seen. All the buildings here
wore the smoke like a second skin. My mother
could never wear white waiting for the trolley.
I dream I am dancing with Gene Kelly. We dance
on smoke and muscle. We dance across
the polluted water. He lifts me in the air, he loves
me. The city is all around me stained black and beautiful
and I finally I am beautiful too.