Silky jazz or a jangle banjo’s licks.
Kick off your shoes, roll down your stocking tops.
Weave through the smoke with whiskey on your lips.
Come to me, here, deep in my dream, let’s dance.
I often think I know all of your tricks,
how you can spin a tune that never stops.
The shimmy of your shoulders and your hips
that mesmerize. I never stand a chance.

Why do you come, Louise, to me, a man
you never met so long ago? And why
can I not leave the dreams you seem to bring,
enticing me, in sleep, to love again?

At least you never ask of me to try
more than the slowest dance, you wicked thing.

(I really do dream of Louise, more often than I can explain. Never met her.  Apparently I wish I had.  As for wicked, that sobriquet might be better applied to me, but then it wouldn’t be a poem. )