Alan Catlin

The Firebird

She was wearing
this amazing short
short skirt with a
low cut top to match
made from fabrics
so way beyond loud
it made you wonder
if she was cheerleading
for some spectator
sport organized in
another dimension
parallel to ours
and she was so
bubbling over, effervescent
trying to make whatever
it was she wanted
understood, she spoke
in a tongue not readily
recognizable as something
that was spoken here
on earth, her efforts
made more complicated
by her warp hyper speed
buzzing and The Boss
screaming something
about being born in the USA
as if that were a big deal
in the background, so I
try hand gestures to help
out, pointing at items
behind the bar asking her
to select but it doesn’t
work out, becoming more
and more like some colorful,
futile game of charades
conducted by two inmates
of a locked-in ward.
Her t-shirt said,
BUMP and GRIND, gold lettering
on fading black and it looked
as if the shirt was made for a
much taller frame the way it
hung long at the arms and
shoulders, barely containing
the enormous bulk of her waist,
those thundering thighs only
a real Mack truck driving, hard
loving man could drive through,
an observation that led me to
believe that the shirt’s slogan
referred to his occupation as
an auto body repair man rather
than to hers as an exotic dancer

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