Enraptured, hearts beat
one-and-two-and-one-and-
two people incessantly
captured, frame after frame
by strobe lights, splitting
seconds, emitting
cartoons of real humans.
Each successive shot
each obsessive swing
of slick hair and hip
make her feet glide
front step back step turn
step across the floor
and collide with his
until his hand is
clutching her side
and his fingers lock
with hers, and for
a second they're breathing
the same sticky air.
His start-up smiles, his
charming lines and
screamy what's-your-name?
and where-you-from?
conversations don't hint
any trepidation -
she even thinks maybe
this guy has a bit of
class in his moves
on the liquor-shined tiles,
but the move he makes next
is a different style:
a bit of force on the small
of her back he presses
and messes
up her rhythm,
making them face-to-
resisting-face so she says
the usual “no-please
-just-dancing” line once then
twice waiting for his eyes
to stop looking so
strangely enticed.
She shakes her head
tries to loosen the arm he's
got clamped tight
around her waist but
dammit he moves closer and
closer because right now he
thinks that he knows her
but I'd like to make a bet
that he only knows
her silhouette.
