Nobody struts like you strut
in your horned Sunday hat
and raptor cloak, fists up
as your arms pump,
you take a big, firm step
in those enviable boots.
Glory to your maker!
The moment I spy you
in Mesopotamian Art,
I begin to Tootsie Roll.
5,000 years old,
and you got it all going on—
take my hand and shuffle me
down the hallowed halls.
Let’s two-hop the grand stairs.
Tonight, free swing
at Lincoln Center.
Cock your hat
and twirl me,
sashay me,
deep dip me, please.
My flouncy dress
bounces in time
as we quickstep
across the floor.
The band strikes up
Ain’t She Sweet
and you cut-a-rug
in your patina boots,
toss your raptor
cloak across a café chair.
Your bronze skin shines
with sweat so when
you pull me in for a kiss
my hands slip
most deliciously
down your smooth,
sculpted chest.
Let’s stay drunk
while we spin.
So there’s a 4,950 year
age difference,
I like your style
your confidence.
Escort me forever,
dance me away
from the cases
of broken pottery
and lost medallions
to a place where
we can jig
through millennia,
swagger among
monsoons,
moonwalk
while empires
crumble.
