By Mr. E. Bates
Shall we dance then, me with you?
As evening sky takes hot pink hue.
Resembling a harlot, bare-breasted on a mattress.
That cues us to a pregnant question:
Is dancing well, just dancing for it?
Let us dance in summer sunset.
While I have danced them all so steady,
Danced and had the greatest ball.
The hustle, tango, Virginia reel.
I have counted my days with Viagra pills.
And to think that one, sitting cross-legged on her cushion,
Had to joke, “That wasn’t it at all.”
What can an ass assume?
The evening ladies come and blow.
They talk of Michael’s angel ho.
Her knowing of his art,
Or knowing, doesn’t give a fart.
Should I dance with every partner,
If that partner wants to dance?
Hoping for the final answer.
Just to get inside her pants.
I should have been a pair of white ballet shoes,
Tipping lightly across a stage.
Or a Hollywood costume never worn twice.
And not a man whose moves weren’t nice.
I turn grey…getting old.
The evening bell has tolled.
I will watch the coquettes’ cleavage when they offer me a peek.
I behold the sea cows dancing cheek-to-cheek.
I must believe they dance for me.
end
Mr. E. Bates is a poet who likens the quest for love to a foxhunt, in which it is the chase and not the kill that appeals.
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July 06, 2007
