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Dance floor


On this small town’s only bar’s floor you dance,
made up in black and Paris red, dressed in a revealing red top over a black skirt.

I see you move with no appendages;
no bungees, no parachute, no supercharged engine vibrating behind your seat, telling you how to feel.

You move and you swim, and the expressions on your face make this a venture worthwhile.
The way your eyes move, tracing all corners of the compass;
then in a moment of rapture you look straight at me, or him, or any one of us, setting heart after heart on fire.

Your eyes move. The way you look to both sides while I adore your lips from afar…
The tongue peeks through, moistening their bumpy surface. (You can taste the lipstick but we have no idea.)
In that moment, anything you do with your eyes drives men crazy.

Your arms are rising and falling like ocean waves, from shoulder to fingertip, in harmony with the music.
I have to distract myself from your inviting countenance to notice your legs automatically walking without going anywhere.

Men buy you drinks, sometimes you take, other times you refuse.
Your friends bittersweetly guard your honor as you lose yourself to the sound and the fury;
they watch you just as the men do, only with envy in place of desire.

You evoke high images and dramas in the loins on men.
They cannot picture that familiar torn t-shirt you’ll change into when you arrive home just before you slip into bed.

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