Dance Hall Days

You dance with perfection
now and then.

She tugs you forward, flirts you onto
the floor for a twirl, licks your earlobe
and says, “come with me.”

You beg off and she winks at you,
certain you’ll be back.

She knows that you know
that the only path
to loving her
means leaving this world permanently behind.

It does thrill you when perfection says,
Simply close your eyes and melt
into my sweet arms.  She smells of gardenias
and is soft as hollyhock pollen
on a bee’s leg.

It’s no wonder
you count pills into a ring box
and tie it a noose for a bow
after a turn around the floor with her.

But then you consider the impending poppies,
the fuschia regaining strength
after you brought it in from a blistering sun,
the cardinal couple on the feeder, the joy of
the three legged dog upon your arrival.

Last night’s mad music
fades.  Perfection blows you a kiss.
She’s the everlasting love of your life,
but she steps back to her table.

She’ll be there, her kiss as reliable
as a single shot shotgun
when you’re ready.  She’s on
your dance card and she’s sure of you
even as you fall to your knees
to bathe in the wind through your window.

You both know it will bring rain
eventually, a beat as smooth
as brushes on a cymbal,
that can’t be denied forever.