She thinks of a picnic table by a pool; the smell
of grilled hamburgers and corn cobs overwhelms her
as the pink back nearby splashes chlorine into our laps.
You pull your skin closer and the great rush is on:
You are reminded of a great line Dorothy Parker once wrote
in a book you never read, &ldquo'I don’t want to dance with anyone,”
and recall that you’ve always wanted to learn the Flamenco
with the most desirable Spaniard flashing the deepest midnight hair
as the definitive opposite of her bone white teeth,
at least one good stomp around the room, if only so
your family would finally see your hidden talents
and your co-workers would envy you from the wings.
But alas, these are the fortunes rolled into cookies closing
the end of the meal. You are here now watching me move sleekly
between the philosophies and news banners, surpassing first Summer,
then Fall, warm in my newfound humanity, hibernating for love.