It was when I discovered what having tired forearms meant.
Rhythmic Bopping speaks languages
That English and Energy share a stake in, cocktail parties
Keeping in singularity the flow around you, an orchestrator of attention.
Delusions of grandeur in sunset podiums garnering hundreds of looks
The twilit shadows deepening in sight and in sound in a ring,
Right on the old practice field.
Its familiarity receiving a sentiment always stronger than age.
I have finally conquered the sullen beast that is “petting the cat”.
As soon as someone breaks the horizontal plane in their wrists each downbeat,
It’s “Here Kitty Kitty,
You just ruined the whole rep.
Back to it.”
Bounce, swivel and jive in common, five-four, seven-four, all without a jolt.
My twinging arm feels comfortable in these movements.
Even in the three beat where I spread my wingspan like a bird of prey,
My shoulder feels comfortable.
I look like a goon, but I’m alright with every bit of it.
And in an hour, I’ll do it again.
Fifteen minutes, maybe more.
In order to do what it takes to make it in the first place,
I can stand some tired muscles.