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 *****.
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.