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
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
