Wallflowers

By Vincent R. Pozon

The shy and the sensitive,
that was said of us, the sort
that withers in soirees and dances
between boys and girls' schools.

There were those made for these,
party-hopping before deciding
which combo they preferred,
and where to preen all night.

The room would be lined with chairs,
everybody sat with backs against the wall
– except these boys, comfortable
in their swagger, they stood all night

The room was mapped by popularity:
a forest of the handsome corralling
the alluring. But there, in the dark,
the wallflowers, girls meeker than me.

More timid than the shyest of boys.
Yes, they were the homely
and the bespectacled,
the tallest and the brightest.

It pained that they were inside
the room but not inside the party,
no feet jostled in front of them,
no hands to lead them to the floor.

While there were no feet colder
than mine, I, and a few – the ungainly,
we without cars, the shy, stepped out
of ourselves, out of the gaunt

out of the legs that knew no dance,
we left the clumsy and our bungling
by our seats and dedicated the night
to the excluded, to the wallflowers.

Oh, we wanted them off their chairs,
frisky on the floor and perspiring.
I may have worn pants that shone of wear,
shoes you shouldn't show the soles of,

but I could, aided by the similarly minded,
make the bashful blush and cheered,
we, the poorly shod, extended our hands
and stayed all night, as noble men.

While that was it and that was all,
the homely were happy and giggling,
in the dark were faces made pretty,
You could die then, and face your god
with a certain smugness.