The dancers’ marks are spotted,
glow in the dark,
exes on stage,
blue like stars burn hot.

She’s in the back row left,
a second in the recital,
but she’s perfect in her execution,
in expressing the step,
heart, line, and sinker.

Sexy beyond her age.
It’s obvious she’s thought a lot about this dance.
Voguing and stepping, in her own world, a private reverie,
her face caught in stage light, fine boned and captive,
for the moment, timeless.

She bangs the rhythm like I do in my seat,
catching the upbeat and-a two
with a shoulder shrug,
more subtle than hips.

I can convey as much with a nod,
and hold – three – four.

Kiss you on the downbeat, and twirl away in stealth,
leaving you guessing, what the f…
before the bridge.

I’ll go it solo if you are not along for the ride.
Your’re either in on it or out.
At this point in time, I need someone wholly committed.

Someone willing to break from the pack,
do a funky two-step unlike any previously seen,
without regret or self-consciousness,
and revel in the devil-may-care what the hell
any y’all think –
who gives a flying rat’s ass –
as long as we got we, it’s all
oh so absolutely good,
can’t nada be wrong.

Go loco with me baby.
Yell into the abyss with me.
Play pinball, bounce among stars, tilt at worlds,
at windmills, my Dulcinea.

Hold me, love me,
long into the night,
beyond the time when most would think sufficient.

I need long nurturing.
I need to be convinced, not mildly placated.
I need the long haul, the real deal,
the essential, the life dance,
the primal, Eden on the lips,
embraces that never stop, gardens in full bloom, all the time,
marking celestial passing.

I despise aftermath.
I hate interlude.
I just want constant flow, perpetual give and take,
riffing on the now,
the wonder of what’s here, and we in it.

Be me being you be me.
I want to wrap myself in the musk of you,
disappear into oblivion,
like a child prone on the back seat,
at night en route to home from the carnival,
windows rolled turn, to allow night air,
to circulate, while streelamps dance
in the reflection of rear window glass,
and aged melodies play out in AM,
way past midnight, way past my bedtime.

Hold me baby. Be my blanket buddy.
Heard there’s a storm brewing; cuddle with me under cotton sheets
alongside open windows,
while the storm howls,
and the rain blows in.

Young dancer, stay young.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013