From a Saturday at the Dive

Last night I danced on a broken leg in laser lights 

with a man who whispered

“You’ve got the moves,”

between the beams of red, green and white.

It wasn’t at a club in Berlin, where we masqueraded as 

existentialists over drinks served for less than a dime.

There were no Russian baths that we could run off to—

nor any trap doors where our romance could be free to seek and hide.

We did not hear the house DJ play Stereolab remixes 

into the dawn’s first light.

But we had a menthol fog machine and a disco ball 

that followed us like our acolyte. 

And there was a smile that we tossed between us 

until the other dancers spun out of sight.