The beat provided by the laptop on stage

needed two men to seemingly

twiddle the knob

and press the bells

in which the girls came tumbling down

towards the front and make the monitors

and speakers blush and have

the onlookers either look

on in amazed silence at the agility

and flexibility

of the main girl as she taught

the boy who caught her eye

just how to make love

without touching skin

or making the bed in the morning,

the awkwardness of Saturday

night breath, the taste of match day burgers

still fresh

in the memory, or having to say goodbye

in the morning.

 

The ritual of the dance,

out of place

but so in time

slowly builds

and I cannot but look, be entranced

as the boy’s face contorts in how the Hell

have I landed this beautiful creature,

yet she remains blissfully unaware

as she wants to do under the lights

that make her opaque tights

sweat and heave and glisten

in the summer’s dying night,

all the things that her mother told her

that dancing would do,

improve her figure

and make her the most interesting woman

in the room, so she speeds it up

and makes the boy feel as though he cannot

keep it up

with her, he soon flakes

and she looks around, her body still moving

under August night days and sees

that the room is now too exhausted

to be amongst,

the awkward nature of saying goodbye

on the Sunday morning

solved.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015