Friday, June 16, 2023

The New Normal 2.3 (Jitterbug, and Father's Day)


 My father, David Greenbaum, probably 8 or so, already deaf. (1927-1979)


Jitterbug

 

You have to understand:

at six months he should have died

when fever torched his otic nerve,

scalded his inner ear.

Grandma bargained, connived, even

changed his name to change God’s mind:

David, always outmatched,

yet understanding the swing of sling.

The odds shorted him, every time.

 

Somehow he knew music,

sold vinyl in Hollywood after school.

His heart beat 4/4 like the blues,

just right for a jitterbug slow enough for flair,

to place, to plant the back foot

so the wave snaps right up your spine

to your thrown-back head.

Loved the cool grunt of the bass

sounding diminished thirds,

augmented sevenths. Vibes poured

through the pencil

he held like a straw between his teeth,

eraser braced on the turntable base.

 

The man could dance.

Taught me the off-kilter tilt of hips

kept balanced by the partner’s hand,

shoulders spiraled around the core,

each of us styling, saved from falling

by the back-beat back-step.

 

He’d raise his arm and I’d strut under,

turning as natural as walking.

We’d move into the snazzy draw,

hands sliding along the other’s arms,

no words needed for the trick

of snagging fingertips,

catching and pulling back to the center,

leaning and returning,

solid on the beat he could not hear.

:::



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