Moker shifted his old miner’s bones
to shuffle for a woman
with tan collarbones
and gold necklaces gracing her
long coke bottle neck.
He learned ballroom dancing
when he went to Cotillion
as a young boy, but he really
learned that if you drop your
fork enough times,
you can catch a glimpse underneath
the girl next door
who just met puberty.
Puberty was good to her.
His heavy polished black shoes
dragged clumsily across the floor.
“You see?” She laughs, tossing back
her tediously curled brown hair,
“You dance like my dead father.”
She was curious, in the peculiar way,
but her smile smeared in gloss
wiped away any particular thought.

Her red dress fell to the floor
of his dim apartment. He
smeared her gloss, and tickled
her thighs. Ten minutes later,
she sat up. “Excuse me,
I forgot my father’s funeral
was tonight.” She slipped into
her arsenal heels and out the door.
He went to the kitchen,
had a glass of water,
and swore to never dance again.

02/20/2004

Author's Note: Another poetry assignment imitating the works of Wiliam Minor.

Posted on 02/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Ann Lauren