The Spotted Cat

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, 


              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.