The pink-and-orange push-up,
a tasty sweet confection
was actually a lady dancing
on her feet. The striped
swath of scarf draped
across her shoulders
curled and lifted with every
rhythmic step.
She liked M.I.A.,
the reggaeton, the Smiths.
The dj spun these wordlessly,
fingering the taped grooves
as he'd practiced again and
again. The lady dropped
down low, she swung her hips,
she entertained a Brasilian
boy whose smile gave light
like a sliver moon.
In flashback, she recalled
the crazy swooning night,
all the stepping fools,
the coquettish Nati, the
matador Richard, the giggling
girls, toe-tapping boys.
And she also remembered
how they danced around,
between, and above
Rodrigo's neat black shoes
in hilarious tribute.
The feet should be naked
when they pray in time to music.
copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez
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