Almost in Amsterdam

From our small round table

I watched you maneuver to the bar

through a dozen shiny obstacles,

breaking up that straight line

I could tell you were used to walking.

 

Careless dancers writhed

and glistened under a sparkling globe

the size of another world

as the smokers, lifting their chins,

exhaled metallic puffs.

 

Smooth as mannequins,

a few enameled blondes sat on the tall stools

examining your suit as you waited for our drinks,

their sharp stiletto heels

pulsing toward your knees.

 

The music was bass heavy, loud

and more provocative than what

they played back home in that other country

where you came from,

where I knew you’d soon return.

 

You wanted to leave

before we finished our beers

but I liked the way it made you nervous,

this generation to which you didn’t belong;

all the cool indifferent faces.

 

I knew I wouldn’t need

to be drunk to return with you to your hotel

and I wanted you to offer,

so I began to dance beside you

in the dark blue light.

 

You shook your head and smiled

when I tugged on your hand and I could see

you struggling to speak and I wondered then

if you had a lover somewhere

waiting for your call.

 

By the time the song was over

I was in your arms, my cheek pressed

like a prisoner against those bars across your heart,

and in my ear was your apologetic whisper

that there was something I should know.

 

 

 

DeMaris Gaunt

1-8-14

 

 

 

 

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