THE DANCE
In the late
afternoon sun
of February,
in a room
resplendent
with hearts,
we dance
the polka in
old world style
to long-playing
records that skip
with contentment,
while the crows
on the wall look
impassively on.
I see nothing
but your cornflower
blue eyes.
I feel nothing
but your warm sweet
breath on my cheek.
Your expression says,
let’s dance till the
crows call our names.
In the late
afternoon sun
of February,
in a room
resplendent
with hearts,
we dance
the polka in
old world style
to long-playing
records that skip
with contentment,
while the crows
on the wall look
impassively on.
I see nothing
but your cornflower
blue eyes.
I feel nothing
but your warm sweet
breath on my cheek.
Your expression says,
let’s dance till the
crows call our names.
