Dancing with Felix

Frannie Z

 

Bailamos, sweet Felix!

Let’s build a wayback machine.

Take us to when you were fine

and tough as six inch nails

and when I was built

like the proverbial shithouse.

Mostly, to when we both

could dance the night away.

 

Vamos, Felix.

Take that shirt off.

Let the fine young men

See just how buff you are.

I will dance in my bikini top

And shorts,

The ones with black glitter.

 

Dance, Felix.

They are starting the drums

that quake across the room

and adding syncope

With that lazy tambourine.

 

Show them your moves, Felix.

They are craning their necks:

the ones from the islands,

the ones from East Harlem,

the Bronxitos,

the ones from Brooklyn,

even those from Westchester.

 

Swing those hips, roll them slooowwwly

like a python about to turn

but teasing until he pounces.

Hold your chest out

and nod half nod your head arrrrooouunnnd.

Make them want to beg.

 

Then half turn again so they can see

in back.

 

Hide again just slightly

until you see their tongues

waffling out.

 

Then break, break, spin

to the high woodwinds

to the flute that goes so light

that it stands your hair up.

 

Cap it off by showing them again

just a glimpse,

then swirling those hips faster,

slower,

faster, then slower again

until they sigh and gulp.

 

Oh, my Felix, you tease

better than a breath

of cool air

on a summer night.

 

You are a long summer night,

the longest,

one that heats the sky

red under summer stars

forever

As long as you dance.