You said you don't dance,
but I watched you try to resist
the saxophone as it wailed
in the smoky room or
the drumbeat that called
across strobe lite fingers
beckoning you away from
your Pabst Blue Ribbon,
the trumpet that pulsed ghostlike
into your undulating open hands...
and, later, when I got you home
and we played some of the songs
the band had serenaded us with,
you gave in to being a lover,
twirling me around your torso
as you strummed my body and
made me sing songs I didn't know
I was capable of singing.
You don't dance.
I don't sing.
But together, we
make liars out of each other
as we move to the music
of the night.