No one in New Orleans has to be told
to dance; street poets,
with the barefooted guitar players,
set aside their notepads to blend
instantly with a single ladies’ night out,
turn the quiet street into a dance floor,
singing, “pour some Crown in my cup,”
under the blast from a bounce song’s bass.
Tourists on the Riverwalk lean against
the railing across from Jackson Square
to watch us quizzically,
as one girl learns that you gotta
bend, lock your knees,
or let your hips find a song to rock to–
but it’s much harder than it looks.
Or, it’s much easier to laugh at your
lack of natural rhythm while still
getting caught up in the contagion anyway,
because even when we can’t dance,
we dance as if shaking off the last flames
of a bad break up or intoxicated by a new lover.
Note: Not done with this and interested (and frustrated) in where this will go.
Also, based on a true story.