ahh, the dance

Friday night gridlock:

she won’t let it slow her down.

The purse is rifled

for the necessary tools

to transform a face weary

of the long work week

to the allure of youthful

woman – glistening

lips, a whisper of roses

across her cheekbones and then

her eyes. She deftly

brushes soft tiers of color

on her fragile lids,

skewing the rear view mirror

for a closer look, turning

her head side to side.

The traffic creeps ahead, horns

honk – she turns her eyes

to the road, creeping up to

the bumper before her, and

dives into the purse

again, retrieving the thin

tube and adjusting

the mirror again, widens

her eyes, lips forming an O

as she brushes dark

color with care on lashes

to frame her sultry

eyes. Turning her head one way

then another, pursing her lips,

then pouting, smiling,

checking for imperfection

on her Friday night

face.  Ahh, the dance, the rhythms,

the ritual of Friday night:

male bravado and

swagger, female preening and

maneuvering, lights

and music, inquisitive

stares.  Looking for mates who will

save us from gridlock.

But the future can’t be told,

can it?  He may be

reluctant to commit, she

may deplore the one-night-stand.

Mountains of laundry,

piles of dirty dishes, bills

to pay, no money,

children who outgrow cuteness

to become strange adolescents,

years of loneliness

in crowded rooms, aching to

remember freedom:

Friday night gridlock but we’ll dance

all night. Traffic creeps forward.

She shakes her head to

fluff her hair, running fingers

through her locks, pushes

the mirror into place and

leans on her horn. Friday night.

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