"Vamos a Bailar, Abuelo"

The fine merengue band has worked up
To a fevered pitch. I'm watching Marisela
Dance. She does so as if she's possessed,
So beautiful, beyond my reach. I sit behind
The dance floor's little wall, and drink
My Margarita. Hers, untouched, sweats
On the table. She'll be back for it in time..
She'll laugh and say I ought to join her,
But she knows that I will not, while I
Have not the slightest idea why she
Brought me here.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 74 times
Written on 2019-12-09 at 01:04

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