I am inopportunely shy.

I cannot apologize because I know this will not change. Like so many moments (in-between unusually hot seasons for instance) the sweat of ceaseless back-and-forth wears heavy on my nerves. I suppose this acts as penance.

The process of a ***** analysis, for those unaware, is as follows:
—Drive an unusually long distance
—Enter a dingy storefront as quickly and quietly as possible
—Pay your $20 ****-cup processing fee at a counter that smells nonironically of cups of ****
—1)Wash your hands, then 2) lift your shirt, then 3) drop your pants
—Put your mind on Do Not Disturb as you try to pull focus from the man pretending he is not staring at your *****
—Urinate (following an uncomfortably long drought)

When considering all possible alternatives, this is easy. It is benign in all respects. And yet, for the life of me, I cannot shake these shoulders free of worry. Too easy to indulge the mind and its vice-grip on the body.

We aren't ever really in control, are we?

Every time I call her the result has always been one of the two revolving conclusions.
The phone would ring its heart out but no response, then straight to voice mail,
I don t believe in leaving messages or texting, nor writing on walls - I am old fashioned that way  
The other is - the cellular device is transmitting, my heart races while my thoughts push for her response
Then an erratic of marvels, like the Halley's Comet!
She speaks and my heart stops then begins again, as I witness stars at high noon while recovering;
But, it turns out I always seem to come calling at the most unfavorable of hours, today is no different
Inopportunely, she is otherwise engaged occupied with a work related emergency as always  
Creating obstacles preventing us from our very much overdue and profound conversations;
I love picking at her gorgeous brain and the things she transmits from her beautiful mind- we sync
She answers, I do my best not to fumble and mumble keeping up appearances I ask for some of her time
She declines politely blaming a colleague, due to blunder that took place in a different gallery / department – she sums it all up as a work fiasco in regard to an incorrect delivery, inaccurate client;
Conclusion: she needs to run damage control to minimize the fall out manage this disaster
That gallery those abstract paintings these Sculptures & sketches mixed with paint displayed on canvas  
these fine arts she spends hours staring in to which she makes sense of in her own way- they are her life
She promises to call back and begs for my pardon, her exuberance in that moment makes me hopeful;  
I have been waiting for that call back for little over a decade now, optimistically waiting for a phone call that will never come, in this life time.  
Like the Halley's Comet! Not in my life time.

I tip figurative hat to the late Cathy Robertson, longtime (lifetime) Thomas Paine Unitarian Church member, who unwittingly and quite casually made mention of contra dancing, which inopportunely, inextricably, and inaccurately linkedin to The Contras who were various United States backed and funded right-wing rebel groups that were active from 1979 to 1990 in opposition to the Marxist Sandinista Junta of National Reconstruction Government in Nicaragua, which had come to power in 1979 following the Nicaraguan Revolution.

After a hiatus of scores of years,
I in tandem with the missus
returned to a venue
March 14th, 2024
which Thursday night dances
currently held at Commodore
John Barry Arts and Cultural Center
6815 Emlen Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119
that not only served
as palliative per bashfulness,
but even remedied
yours truly resigned himself living social
as a Norwegian bachelor farmer.

Life as a high school wallflower served me
analogous as The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
Than the Driver  of the *****
and Whipping Cords
Will Serve You
More Than Ropes Will Ever Do
without any budding female friendships
until lo… a gent tulle mandate
from my late mother uprooted me
from mein kampf

familiar bedrock level road terrain
(analogous regarding how
a duck takes to water -
meaning I identified said aerobic
rather cardiovascular workout
as an inherent quick study),
which venue offered a groundswell
of interpersonal opportunities
(preferably with persons of female gender)
to blossom forth

into golden sterling resplendent rod
of natural equipoise
(this an unbiased opinion) and balance
with freestyle élan begetting
improvisational swinging motions
unchained from the moors of formality
and lit figurative Saint Elmo’s
Sesame Street fiery dance
allowing, enabling and providing
this shy awkward self

during his young (emerging) adulthood
to cast away four ever
thy self embroidered handsome
straight as an arrow
naturally high as a kite young guy
buzzing like a yellow jacket,
thus liberating spontaneity
that je ne sais quoi joie vivre
clamoring headlong toward venus
from healthy pistol packing

overflowing bin laden
well nigh testosterone
erupting male member
toward opposite gender,
whereby bravado donned as key
to *** field of whet dreams
fostering initial albeit late blooming
roll in the hay hormonally
rooted rutting squeal.

Back in the day,
(when genders binary)
with nary a care
in the webbed wide world
I ate, breathed and lived
for contra dancing
experiencing social anxiety
and profusely sweaty palms
every mile of the way
(twenty door to door dash)

from (at that time)
324 Level Road
to then designated site
at Summit Presbyterian Church
6757 Greene Street,
Philadelphia, PA 19119,
where love's labor lost
found yours truly
engaged in pitched losing battles
introducing yours truly

(even after expiating my carnal sins)
to romantic liabilities incurred
while displaying comedy of errors,
when risking a overtures to ask
an attractive woman to be my partner
not only for one dance,
but also to explore the parameters
of fun two people can experience
while wearing clothes.