Oh, girlfriend!
did we once dance until sweat like a clear pearl necklace
hung between our breasts, our hair curling in wet ringlets
scrambling outside to grab a smoke, sneak a kiss
with a male conquest, then back to the pounding music?
We would wave at Doris Jean wearing a red pleated skirt
with gold high heels (such a slut)
as we sashayed to the ladies room, past the reviewing stand
with their striped tee-shirts rolled over muscle mounds,
to redden our lips, spray Channel under our arms,
check for mascara tracks, reappear to the pounding music
wave at Ellen, her green eye shadow
shimmering in lacquered sheen. (such a slut)
Then request a slow dance, hoping to lean our heads
against a beating heart, slide moist fingers into a grip
giggle, wiggle, sizzle, sexy movie-star sirens,
dream-catchers with no limits.

Now we cruise Tucson in our melting years,
seek a dark, cool place, motorcycles in front,
white shirts glowing under strobe lights
tanned arms fling to frenzied music
funky, junky, hunky, we rattle our heavy bones
in boogie beat, interact with a giant TV screen
while our ginger ales dilute
                     into square ice cubes.