It came when we threaded our skins
three hours on the banquet floor
your arms a silk coat, my garments vested
rent on parquet, lipstick to collarbone
if our turns were documented: a masterpiece.
The maestro had us as the glimmer in his eye
or so we told it several cups in
even as we were briskly parked on the gala's out-
side door slammed shut us breaking
into the biting of the wind, we spun anyway.
Silk does little to nip the frost so we iced over
four parking spots and one curbstone, we
snacked by an ATM wary of huddled masses
but still light on our glass slippers
until the sun rolled in and we found ourselves
melted under hard lights, our hair trying to escape
the drumming in our skulls the split of a grin
the orange juice in wee hours at a diner
served by a waitress who frowned but,
bless her, kept our coffee mugs full.
Photo by Tony Ross on Unsplash