Neighborly Waltzes

Betsy Joseph

September 28, 2022

ONE, two, three,

STEP-step-close.

To the strains of Johann Strauss

streaming from another room

I found myself at seventeen

teaching a widowed neighbor to waltz

in measured three-quarter time.

A church social in the wings,

along with a lady friend’s invitation,

had this seventy-something neighbor

shyly ringing the doorbell, asking for my assist.

Still at an age where I thought I could do anything,

I promised I would try.

At night I did my research,

neighbor Henry found a record,

and we practiced each afternoon

until he somewhat mastered the rhythm

and he felt almost confident.

The special evening, when it arrived,

went well according to his report 

and Henry continued to dance for some years ahead.

I’ve not waltzed since that age of seventeen.

My spectacled and slender neighbor,

his silver hair always neatly trimmed,

passed away my second year in college.

From memories of old, yet still wondrously fresh,

Henry remains as I once remembered:

undaunted and determined,

forever chuckling at our missteps,

both of us in ages of becoming. 

Betsy Joseph lives in Dallas and has poems that have appeared in a number of journals and anthologies. She is the author of two poetry books published by Lamar University Literary Press: Only So Many Autumns (2019) and most recently, Relatively Speaking (2022), a collaborative collection with her brother, poet Chip Dameron. In addition, she and her husband, photographer Bruce Jordan, have produced two books, Benches and Lighthouses, which pair her haiku with his black and white photography.