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Ulys H. Yates | Little FolliesTo make reality endurable, Proust said,
we must nurse a few little follies in ourselves.
The one I nursed when I was the same age as Marcel
when he loved Gilberte
was to believe I could dance,
just as I believed I could
hit a home run
score the winning touchdown
win the hundred-yard dash or
somewhat later
drink a pint of vodka without getting drunk
sleep with any woman I wanted
write the Great American Novel or
much later
still hit a home run
get promoted to manager
win the lottery or
even later
have a comfortable retirement
continue to drive a car
get it up without help.
But it was learning to dance that first
introduced me to folly--
the illusion I could dance like Fred Astaire
or Gene Kelly
(after all I could sing better than either of them).
I couldn't, of course,
except on spring-misted nights alone outside
on the country club lawn
the music faintly heard
as I twirled and leaped
with the stars.
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