He Danced Once

Found a photograph this evening

in a shoebox on the shelf:

young man in a borrowed jacket,

hair like he had somewhere to be.

Hand around a girl's waist,

head thrown back, mouth wide open —

took me a full minute

to recognize my father.

The man I knew came home tired,

sat in the same chair, said the same three things —

But he danced once. Look at him.

He danced like the floor belonged to him.

Somewhere between that night and mine

he set the whole thing down.

He danced once — and I never asked

what the song was, or the girl,

or what a young man wants

before the wanting gets rearranged.

So I drove out on a slow evening

and I asked him. Took a while.

He said the band was called The Ambassadors,

he said the girl became my mother.

He said, "We used to close the place."

And then he got quiet for a minute

and he said, "You know, I could've played.

I was decent. But you came along, and I liked being your father better."

Everything he ever traded

got traded for a room with me in it —

And he danced once. Look at him.

The floor belonged to him.

And then he handed me the floor

and never said a word about it.

He danced once, and I got a childhood,

and the cost of it was never mentioned.

Not once. Not one time.

So he danced once. Ask your old man.

Ask him tonight, ask him plainly:

who were you before the tired?

What did you put down for me?

'Cause they'll answer if you ask them,

and they'll never bring it up —

he danced once.

Get him out on the floor before he can't.