Older men are made of shadows and dark glamour,
Wearing black suits and slick shoes, and
Lips that drip sweet venom.
Between their fingers a French cigarette, the
Smoke billowing in their eyes,
Those dark, expensive eyes,
Latching onto the slender lines of
Beautiful women and cognac glasses.

Older men dance slowly when they do,
But they can do it so passionately too—
Weaving in and out of the music,
Arms snaked around waists and whispering
Into a lady’s ear,
“You are arresting, my dear.”