He read two poems by an angry
poet, a young woman with a real
beef apparently about several
things given the content of the

two poems. Someone might glibly
and dismissively toss off that
“She has issues,” but that same
thing has been said of him —

“He has issues,” and that would
be true — he does as does every-
one, but that response doesn’t
help; he found himself recoiling

at what he read, not because it
was a mirror into his “issues,”
although it might be (There’s
always that possibility.) but

because the poet seemed “so”
angry, so over the top angry.
It scared him for her. One
line stood out: “I hate myself.”

He didn’t want her to hate her-
self. He just sat there for
awhile wondering what kind of
“issues” were dancing around

in her family of origin and he
wasn’t real sure he wanted to
go to that dance now that he
is retired from years and years

and years of dancing the jitter-
bug, the rumba, the waltz, the
line dance, the square dance,
the wah-watusi, the limbo, the

hokey-pokey, the twist, the bird
and so many other family of origin
“dances” that he danced over the
years.