She dances for the boy at the bar,
smooth gleam of breasts
symetric in the scoop of her low cut
dress. Her dance launched
on cheap wine, her body so fine,
it makes the men ache for just one night,
or a moment when they might touch
hips to hers. And the cinnamon boy
dances too, his lean thighs and pelvis
grind, palms sway, stroking the outline
of the girl's smoke-haze aura.
Behind them, the sax player, all gold
and shine, charms his way
through the bar, trailing notes so sweet
they sugar your heart. And Camille
grinds out Marley, stretching the words
til they fall to the floor, a lament
to a woman's tears, and the girl
in the low cut dress dances closer
to the cinnamon boy, her hips
graze his just long enough to feel
his need, and the dance is no longer
a dance, but a prelude. She knows
he wants to lose himelf in her smooth gleam,
and the throb of the sax through her breastbone,
the way the boy slides air through his fingers
makes her feel that smooth need too.