The button of her jeans
rolled around my belly,
pulling down,
bending our knees
with the husky sound
from the bass,
taking us back and forth
in the rhythm,
long and slow,
against her breast
as a rift of chords
aired from the steel guitar,
finger sliding blues,
the washboard, crying,
from the rattling voices,
metal covered fingers racing
wash-board tin.
The sound-making
goes into our hands,
keeping us upright,
invisible
inside and out.
The harmonies hang out from each arm
lifted our toes off the floor
as the cat-eyes
from the corner of the room
dance in the dark.