An Ordinary Night in the Muscular Arms
There
was gliding downstairs and a gold silk skirt swirling
around
my feet, blown up and wavering at my movements
and
Bowie pounding his Jean Genie out from the walls filling
my
skinny soul with the impossible fantastic dream of this me
barely
eighteen, a queen in a bar, in charge of the smallest
lounge
searching for a bottle of pink gin that didn't exist – all
I
knew was the longing for glamour in a cheap skirt that held me
entranced,
dancing with David in the world, letting go-go-go.
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