Like crooked waterbugs dancing
a suspension bridge waltz over
the reflected blue sky,
we dance crooked
-two left feet-
in a tango. We are
both third-wheeling
on the dance floor
under the tacky mood lighting.

Our silvery clothes sticking
and making a disco ball effect
with stray glitter. The sparkling
dust of a good time rubs off
on your limp silk tie as we try
to dance in time with a song
we don't know. The beat like a
foreign tongue played backwards.
An indecipherable urge to
"whip it" churns in our nervous
bellies.

The dimmed lighting
colors the floor with
thrown up reds and blues,
they bounce across the walls
in a dizzying fashion.
Bubbles we cannot pop
with our bad dance moves,
pulling an Elaine from
a 90s sitcom that shows
our age.

Unhip among the short
spangly dresses,
encrusted in sequins and
tighter than skin.
Looking like mermaids writhing
in a rainbow on the dancefloor.

Yet we are looking better
than the polyester bellbottoms-
busting a move in the corner.
A shimmery reminder of
where this came from
and a hellish vision of
afros and sax jazz.

We swing left and right,
quickly pull a fancy
square-like step across the floor.
I pray to the lord of dance
I don't step on your toes.
Or you mine, unexposed in
my dusty dancing shoes,
which are not made for
such psychedelic getting down.

But we flounder our way through
unfamiliar territory
and among the waves of people
we are sailed to the door.

Outside you light a cigarette and
we laugh.
Maybe we should go dancing
more often.