JUST ANOTHER NIGHT OF COUNTRY DANCING
by @DianneM
JUST ANOTHER NIGHT OF COUNTRY DANCING
by Dianne Moritz
They come dressed like real dudes:
faded levis, tooled leather boots, silver
concha belts, hair slicked back under
cowboy hats, raring to Boot Scootin’ Boogie.
They sashay over, heels clacking on the wax
tongue-n-groove, offer out a callused hand,
swing you through the rowdy crowd, singing “Achy,
Breaky Heart,” confident they’ll soon break yours.
They lock you in a fierce embrace, glance down,
ask: So how’ve you been?, all the while checking
out the competition, lazy and loose with booze.
Shuffling left, instead of right, they stumble,
stomp your toes, clumsy with the latest dance
craze, then twirl you under their sweaty armpits,
sultry air around heavy with greasy smells:
French fries, onions, barbecue, burgers, beer.
They yammer on about themselves, casually blowing
lion-breath into your smiling face, as you plot your escape
to coincide with the guitar’s last twang, secretly
praying a tall, handsome stranger two-steps into view.