One of the Frightening First   A growth on this cinder block is how I'm viewed By all who chance glance this way.   The room is crowded,      the music playing,           the lights down low,                the people dancing. I cautiously await one to be deserted by her comrades.   The time grows right. I cling to the wall -- too long. It passes.   I wait again wishing for courage to move,           fearing to be noticed, missing the attention.   Many heartbeats pass. I stir, but none notice. Many chances pass. I grow discouraged.   One attempt more is all, the last slow one has arrived. The time is not right but I move in on one who sits      alone, left by those who went to the floor. I come closer to her, my joints grow weak, my limbs grow cold. I takes a breath, then ask her to dance...   Time stops.   -T. Gene Davis