Ursa Rumba                 

                                                                        by William Doreski




                                                                    Bears, four times two, stomp and swing

                                                       to music strung on a bell curve.

                                                      Their rough pelts shiver and ripple

 
                                                     with breezy corrugations. Their snouts

                                                     whiff the melodious air. They switch

                                                     partners round after round, tireless

 
                                                    in their simple bulky pleasure.

                                                    I operate their phonograph,

                                                    an antique wind-up Edison

 
                                                   my ex-brother-in-law collected

                                                   from a shop on Columbus Ave

                                                   in Boston’s bow-front South End.

 
                                                   I tote it deep into the woods

                                                   every summer to amuse the bears.

                                                   Although I’ve never learned to rumba

 
                                                   I’m glad to see creatures so adept,

                                                   their sense of rhythm powerful

                                                   as pistons in a diesel truck.

  
                                                               Even the cubs pair off and trot

                                                               around the clearing, clumsier

                                                               than their more practiced elders

 
                                                               but emitting affectionate groans.

                                                               The bears appreciate the music

                                                               and reward me with maggots and bugs.

 
                                                              I eat with much feigned gusto,

                                                              unwilling to insult my bear-hosts

                                                              by refusing their offers of grub.

 
                                                             The afternoon wanes. I replace

                                                             the thick one-sided recordings

                                                             in their brown paper sleeves,

 
                                                             shake paws with the bears and leave

                                                             them grinning, their long brisk claws

                                                             shining as they wave goodbye.