By Carlos Cardona
Sunday at the dance, at a club Continental,
Sunday after Sunday, every single Sunday drawn to this Sun,
This Mecca of Merriment, this Jerusalem of Swing,
Where dancers old and young, black and white,
Christian, Jew, Buddhist and Nothing,
Are spiritually fortified by the Forties,
By the music and dancing of that golden time,
Time that Glenn, Benny, Count, Jordan and and Duke ruled,
A time called Big Band, when Swing was King.
There, one Sunday, as I tucked in my spot,
I noticed a bright light in the corner,
It came from a creature, so radiant, so sweet,
That I was overwhelmed and felt the need of consorting,
To connect our voices together,
I opened my mouth and said something typically erudite:
"Uh, wanna dance?"
But then we were stepping,
And so good did it feel, so delightful the partner,
That I hoped it could continue through the dancing,
That perhaps we'd spend the night holding left to right,
Swinging out, tap stepping, tucking and turning,
Lindy whipping, hammerlocking and stomping off,
Dancing off into her arms, her lips and heart,
All this I was dreaming, of leading that light.
But then I let her go, as I have learned to do,
So we could dance with others and compare,
Then 'twas later I saw her again,
And would not miss my chance to talk alone,
To learn of her life and passions, to see if passion coincides,
And tell her of my hopes of further knowledge,
Knowledge of her kind teaching, her gentle heart,
It was then I knew: she has my number.
O Dark Blonde in a swinging sonnet,
Beautiful One in my Rock 'N' Roll soul,
Would that sweet swing song in your heart be mine.