Without that ass the dance falls flat

Watching her dance again,
moving those magnificent muscles;
The same I stroke to sleep.
Her hair is pulled and pinned.
Her cheeks blush with powder pink paint.
She sits porcelain; Broken blue doll legs point us east to west.
I watch the Dutch girl in front and I watch My girl
in back; My favorite place to glance.
Bolero plays. Boobs bounce. All those boobs
out front and all those eyebrows opening.
Calves and thighs undulate
like Koi pond ripples in the rain,
moving mouths of fish to shore;
Dry rye morsels moistening.
Then this solo. Oh. That one
I hadn’t noticed this whole time
out of all the girls. Remarkable. She must be
the tiny choreographer. She must have
made that solo to make herself different
while all the other girls stay the same
and Bolero blasts out from tiny speakers;
An old recording.
The symphony, I imagine, is dead or dying.
The instruments, I imagine, are hung on walls—
like Christ during crucifixion;
like Egon Schiele in Kiev;
like an electric can opener in my boyhood kitchen.
We are all, I imagine, unrepentant atheists by our last breath.
Bolero stops, interrupted
by darkening lights and hooting applause.
More boobs bounce while all the dancing girls
take their bow. The house lights up.
It’s hard
not to revel in Ravel.
Then they turn and I watch
My girl move to the back—
while the tiny choreographer gives a snarling shove to the line.
To be different, I think; Like her solo.
As the audience looks down
to see what comes next or who that was,
I sip my beer and wish there were more.
“You were SOOOOO good,” I text My girl.
But it autocorrects me.
“You were SIPPIN good,” I send.
And it’s true, to the last drop.
I set the can beneath the chair
as the lights go back down.

written on 09/18/2012 by: Matt Kane