Love potions splash on ice.

Music plays magic melodies

for sleepwalkers who dance in

a trance.  I stand like a shadow

behind the bar, polishing

glasses, waiting for the next

drink order.  I watch Solo

drift away from her partner

and dance on her own –

something she does each

night at the stroke of midnight.

Real time is dream time.

The language of her body is

visual calligraphy, describing

to every mesmerized yuppie

passion, love, mystery with

its slants, angles, spirals,

tangles, as her black eyes

flash and her raven hair sweeps

in perfect circles.  Lips of fire

are pressed to mine in my mind.

I am breathing flame.  Our

bodies burn in a pyre as our

passions blaze.

Beauty is a commodity.  Even

amidst night life’s glamorous

harem of lynx-eyed temptresses

looking for Prince Charming,

Solo takes desirable to a new

level.  Too bad I can’t afford

her – or any of them for that


Rex Sexton

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