You said shall we dance
as a priest would say
shall we pray
Your champagned breath
upon my cheek
was not caress
Particularly appalling
was your spit upon my neck
rubbed in with your thumb
Shall we dance
I laugh to keep my form
for a patron like you
Scripted conversation
calculated charm
Intended to disarm
just dinner between
high art and low scribbles
Why this
Why that
Why now
Was not a grand jeté enough
to cement the company
to my position
You were below respectable
I beyond naïve
I needed ruby shoes
Your bouquet small
and in poor taste
But here we are
Here we are
I will dance tomorrow
despite new weight
and my old slippers
Fried Chicken & Philosophy 