Filling the Dance Card

Bruises indiscript and earned, draped in pijama bottoms and tank top with a stole to keep warm against the impending fog. Traipsing through the concrete koi of the Tenderloin's sidewalks, picking up tricks and accents and pieces of "his"story. My story begins with love, and ends with love. And with love, we'll begin. No longer a beard, but rather a bow Sliding my chin up and down the fiddle of his body, chest to toes and back again. The music of our bodies drowning out the not-so-very-white noise of Hyde Street's harpies,fixated on fixes, and never repaired. Syncopated panting Joplin's itself from my window, down the fire escape and into the ears of dredges awaiting a bus that may never come. Next stop: Rio de Janiero. My body am abandoned American Spirit smoldering in an ashtray still as samba and smoking as a saxophone holding E flat. We touch as brush strokes on a high hat, Symbolically reminding the other that we intend to have the next dance.