By Dianne Moritz

They come dressed like real dudes:
faded Levis, tooled leather boots, silver
concha belts, hair slicked back under
cowboy hats, raring to Boot Scootin’ Boogie.

 

They sashay over, heels clacking on the wax
tongue-n-groove, offer out a callused hand,
swing you through the rowdy crowd, singing “Achy,
Breaky Heart,” confident they’ll soon break yours.

 

They lock you in a fierce embrace, glance down,
ask: So how’ve you been?, all the while checking
out the competition, lazy and loose with booze.
Shuffling left, instead of right, they stumble,

 

stomp your toes, clumsy with the latest dance
craze, then twirl you under their sweaty armpits,
sultry  air around heavy with  greasy smells:
French fries, onions, barbecue, burgers, beer.

 

They yammer on about themselves, casually blowing
lion-breath into your smiling face, as you plot your escape
to coincide with the guitar’s last twang, secretly
praying a tall, handsome stranger two-steps into view.
Dianne Moritz writes poetry and picture books for kids.  Her latest, HEY, LITTLE BEACHCOMBER, will be out in May, 2019.  Adult poems have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Drabble, Haikuniverse, The Haiku Foundation, Better Than Starbucks, Failed Haiku, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, and others.

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