Dancing 

by Margaret Atwood 

It was my father taught my mother

how to dance.

I never knew that.

I thought it was the other way.

Ballroom was their style,

a graceful twirling,

curved arms and fancy footwork,

a green-eyed radio.

There is always more than you know.

There are always boxes

put away in the cellar,

worn shoes and cherished pictures,

notes you find later,

sheet music you can’t play.

A woman came on Wednesdays

with tapes of waltzes.

She tried to make him shuffle

around the floor with her.

She said it would be good for him.

He didn’t want to.