Tango

On this blustery,

sea spray, salt-whipped day,

I danced with the

whistling, whooshing wind.

The fragrant spray of her

spit and naked breath

shook the buildings beneath

their spindly steel garters.

She carried me up

in her dizzying tango,

around stooping telegraph poles;

over popsicle stick houses,

we fox-trotted humming wires.

We passed old men

at besieged bus-stops,

laughing at women

in up-turned skirts,

as they spun around

like inside out umbrellas,

harassed by her

laughing breath.

She would bite at the ankles

of frightened little children,

and strangle men in suits

with their pin-striped ties,

madly clutching toupees.

Full bosomed secretaries

tumbled upwards,

like dirigibles,

into her voluptuous mists.

And I too grew fat and round on her breath,

mouth agape as she rushed in.

And tall as a hot air balloon

I rolled around this great

windswept city,

a grape on her dancing tongue.

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