Friday Night

Exploded pantoum.

The music was playing all night.
The room writhed in singular minded motions as
the bar was filled from
the street, funneled by red velvet cords inward.
Writhing in singular minded motions,
the lights moved independently of one another,
orchestrating a fluid display, cast
on the undulating mass, rising from the floor.
Moving independently of the other,
lovers on the floor engage amidst their awkward attractions
reaching, holding onto one another. The beat dictates their passions,
fearing that Monday comes too soon.
Amidst the awkward attractions
the bartender gives the middle-aged blond her White Russian.
She is singled out by a balding lawyer from Omaha, who talks only of wills,
she'd rather be on the floor, immersed in the lovers' beat.

From the corner of her eye, the middle-aged blond
sees a young Russian woman turn to the bar. Her accent
writhes through to order. The lawyer
doesn't notice the imported beauty, but she is aware of him.

The Russian turns to give her money to the bartender
from her red, velvet clutch. The lights stroke her arms, caress her lips,
she was made for the spotlight but is afraid of attention that her accent brings.
She has convinced herself that she is not exotic:  "A lady is a lady in any tongue"

The DJ wears crushed velvet, caressing his LPs, stroking them
as lovers do to one another, in the most passionate places,
delivering the summoning and singular minded beat
to those who long to undulate under the fluid lights before Monday comes.
The bartender places the change passionately,
in the Russian's hand. He cannot hear her accent
over the lovers' technologic orchestra.
Her mouth forming the words, she thanks him.

The bartender can't hear her Russian accent, but thinks she's exotic.
She leaves before he can connect to her, her velvet clutch embedding
itself in his memory. The desire in the bartender's eyes
is the same desperation in the lawyer. The middle-aged blond
sees the desperation and connects to the lawyer, clutching his hand to say
she wants to leave before the DJ can summon her away,
so they can explore exotic caresses under a singular light
before Monday comes, and the lawyer's funneled flight to Omaha.

Before the lawyer can summon her through their awkward attraction,
her pays the tab, and they move through the DJ's velvet summoning
to the door, where they return to the street to engage their hands.
The middle-aged blond asks his name, he answers, "L.P. Riseman."
Freed from the DJ's velvet summoning, the Russian
glances back to see the lawyer paying his tab. The Russian lingers at the door,
unnoticed as the music continued to play through the night.