The Dancer by Keith Kitchen

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She gyrates wildly across the dance floor
Lights zigzagging across her breast
Wild enthusiasm lights her eyes
Sexual tension, a pagan rite,
The dance, the dance
nothing matters but the dance.
She smiles at me and marks me
An unattainable object
As my wife and children stand behind me.
We touch briefly, moved by the primal beat,
Then she moves on to another partner,
She lives for the passion,
Yet loves no one,
For nothing matters but the dance.