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Kiss her while you can
still feel good dancing
that itch out of your tri-poly trousers.

Then man-shiver hump your girl.
No, you're not the best
at dancing, but you're dancing

with her and this moony moment
she's yours, stringing her hips
toward you -- black bra straps

like puppet strings!
Do the boob jig, share a Merit,
smell her hair. Smells still

like smoke from that tear-drop
red-fingered candle you hissed
and smiled into till she bent over

the table, touched your ear,
burned her hair. She's sizzling
near the stage now, beating down

the bright ball in sling back heels --
later you will toss them from the bed
while she sits biting her nails.

  — Carrie Cerri

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