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Image for the poem ...dance with me, John...

...dance with me, John...


she whispers that low. sultry
it's butterfly breath floatin around my ear
we don't dance much, when we dance
she is tight up against me in a loose kinda way
smell wildflowers in her hair, fields I never been
ball&chain  on the old rockola
stale smoke & whiskey fog, girls drowsing
on rockabilly shoulders

bare arms, & firm tits under her harley tank
the heat of her thigh, sleek from denim cutoffs
when my hand has slipped down from her ass
that speaks with its own desire
barefoot, which they don't allow, but nobody objects
last call for regrets in a honky tonk bar
brokedown soldier & my tall girl
neon motel room down the road

a man walks many hard miles
& hopes the trail ends right here
with a woman like her (her) in my arms
not dancin much...


(Artist unknown)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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