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.