Sangria with a 3-step beat
Spilt on a wooden table that has no finish.
Their heels clack and toes whisk up dresses,
Who would even notice the wine?
Light is a stained glass window at this hour anyway.
Black hair,
She is a blood orange flower,
He is a wasp insistent on tasting her nectar.
Hold me, you devil.
Who do you think you are, now spin!!
5 little picks at the end of each guitarists fingers,
strum, stream, and blur.
Eyes and ears from the young, old, and the less-able feast.
Spin her again! Once more for me!
And her petals flash as entrancing as an octopus’s tentacles,
as menacing as a peacock’s full spread.
The masterful guitarist’s sweet soul pouring over the bar
Plays the solos of her legs, his hips, the chorus of their eyes.
Their fiery dance plucks each string.
Let no one be fooled,
The pushing wasp is not in control here.
This bar,
This spilled wine,
This evening’s remaining sunlight is for her.
And she blooms in it.
The young girls put her between two pages of a book,
The young boys bashfully struggle to understand and master such a beauty.
A familiar chord progression nods,
a look and a touch for him to have his final attempt.
Ba-chacha, ba-chacha, ba-chacha.
Sun spots burst and dress frills flurry with each departing spin,
he glides and dips behind her,
darting to see if she will dizzy.
The wasp has smelled a summer flower and,
For a dance,
wishes he was the golden bee.
One beat, two beat, three! Cha!
