This is Plahm’s most kinetic poem—a piece that reads like it was written while still sweating, still buzzing with endorphins, still hearing “La Grange” riffing in the background. The prologue is characteristically self-deprecating: the speaker has “tangled feet / and can’t hold a rhythm for 40 seconds” but is “absolutely enthralled” by watching. This is the poem’s governing tension: the poet is a spectator of dance, not a participant, and the poem itself becomes his version of dancing—words as movement, catalog as choreography. The Grizzly Bear is a perfect fictional venue: “tough… full of grit, / sweat. / Honest folk / who don’t put up / with bullshit.” It’s a roadhouse, a juke joint, a Friday-night pressure valve where the body says what the mouth can’t. The dance catalog is roughly chronological and reads like a social history of America told through its hips. The Charleston and the Duckwalk open with early twentieth-century energy. The Carioca sway and SuzieQ bring in the swing era’s “pretty boys, / too young to know.” The Thunder Clap and Hokey Pokey introduce children mimicking adults—”Get those kids home— / it’s gettin’ late”—a sharp, funny observation about the moment a dance floor shifts from family to adult. The Stroll and Hully Gully are mid-century elegance, and the detail “still in the bowling shoes / from early in the evening” is a gem—a character sketch in one line. The Shimmy and the Twist bring “downright heated” sweat and breath. The Watusi and the Frug move into the mid-sixties. The Hustle and Electric Slide push into disco and line-dance territory. Y.M.C.A. brings in politics and celebration. Then the contemporary dances arrive—Cha Cha Slide, Laffy Taffy, the Dougie, the Twerk—and the poem’s energy spikes with “Oh No!” and “I’ll burn too Hot!” Grandma doing the Tahitian with a fake butt and grass skirt is the poem’s comic peak: “WoW! / What exuberance.” The Gangnam Style section is the chronological endpoint, and “Those horses stompin'” reduces a global phenomenon to its essential gesture. The poem’s coda is pure exhaustion: “I gotta go— / Again. / And again.” The closing aphorism—”Dance your life away / and live immortal”—converts the physical experience into philosophy. The ZZ Top frame returns with “Have mercy” and the final scene: Lady Debbie doing the Squat, the speaker needing an Uber, sore in the morning but “in awe.” A poem written by someone who can’t dance but understands that dance is how the body prays.

A poem that earns its sprawl by making every dance name carry social, emotional, or comic weight. This is not a list poem masquerading as art; it’s a social history of America told through the hips, set in a fictional roadhouse that feels completely real. The catalog structure—roughly chronological from the Charleston to Gangnam Style—gives the poem a built-in arc from innocence to raucousness, from children doing the Hokey Pokey to Grandma doing the Tahitian in a fake butt and grass skirt. The self-deprecating frame (tangled feet, can’t hold a rhythm) is essential: it positions the poet as pure audience, which allows the descriptions to be admiring rather than performative. The Grizzly Bear as a venue is a terrific invention—it gives the dance catalog a physical location, a community, a smell of sweat and beer and honest Friday-night energy. Individual details elevate the poem above mere listing: “still in the bowling shoes / from early in the evening” is a miniature short story in one line; “the language of / sweat and breath” converts dance into communication; and “Together / we invent / step by step / move by move / drip by drop— / us” is the poem’s most romantic and most compressed statement, framing partnership as collaborative choreography. The ZZ Top frame (La Grange as inspiration, “Have mercy” as closing) anchors the poem in a specific musical moment and gives it a blues-rock pulse. Where the poem occasionally loses momentum is in the middle sections, where some dance names accumulate without the specific observation that distinguishes the best entries (the Shimmy and Frug sections are thinner than the Stroll or Tahitian passages). But the endorphin energy never flags, and the closing sequence—needing an Uber, sore in the morning, “in awe”—captures perfectly the aftermath of a great night out: wrecked, grateful, ready to do it all again. A poem that can’t dance but absolutely moves.