The Dance

SA PROCHAINE DANSE ( the Dance) In her laxation of memory, force induced with alternate joints from the white boy and the sheik's son she wished she didn't know, she remembered the feeling. Too soon she realized it was no memory. Paris was hot. Paris was dark. As usual dancing was butt to butt and there was no mistake. It was the white boy, he was dancing with some la joie française rurale, a too plump too sweet too easy coquette from outer space. But he was really dancing with her and it was his hand, cool and sensitive, hot and excited, bold and inquisitive, but mostly slipping up her leg and under the elastic of her Lingerie. They couldn't have danced any closer if they had been dancing together. She exploded. © Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet