Two Poems

Waltzing

I can see just so much  
from my studio flat  
through the slanting snow:
my neighbor sweeps his daughter
around their condo
in off-kilter, three-
quarter time: whisk,
promenade, slow dip –
she must be riding his toes –  
while his wife whirls their son
to Benny Goodman,
or looping bluegrass fiddles.  

The last time my parents waltzed:
their wedding day.
After she flung her violets,
he tossed a champagne flute.
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