NIGHT LIFE
Love potions splash on ice.
Music plays magic melodies
for sleepwalkers who dance in
a trance. I stand like a shadow
behind the bar, polishing
glasses, waiting for the next
drink order. I watch Solo
drift away from her partner
and dance on her own –
something she does each
night at the stroke of midnight.
Real time is dream time.
The language of her body is
visual calligraphy, describing
to every mesmerized yuppie
passion, love, mystery with
its slants, angles, spirals,
tangles, as her black eyes
flash and her raven hair sweeps
in perfect circles. Lips of fire
are pressed to mine in my mind.
I am breathing flame. Our
bodies burn in a pyre as our
passions blaze.
Beauty is a commodity. Even
amidst night life’s glamorous
harem of lynx-eyed temptresses
looking for Prince Charming,
Solo takes desirable to a new
level. Too bad I can’t afford
her – or any of them for that
matter.
Rex Sexton