Winters in Cannes
Micky was a fancy man, six pack stomach, wintered in Cannes.
He was handsome. He had good hair. I figured it was dyed, back then we all lied.
This was the old days, loving the night life, loving the boogie, loving the disco rounds.
He danced like a chicken on a wire. The mirrored ball bathed him watching him perspire.
The two of us, dancing at 54. He said, have we met before? I said, we did more than meet, I listened to you snore.
The lights on the dance floor bathed us. We had turned blood red. He said, I don’t remember. Are you sure it was me in your bed?
He needed some proof. I reminded when he sat in my chair my chickens flew onto his arms. My chicken shit in his hair.
He said, now I remember. Chickens, how can I forget?
It wasn’t me he remembered. He remembered the chicken shit.
Micky was a fancy man, six pack stomach, wintered in Cannes.
He was handsome. He had good hair. I figured it was dyed, back then we all lied.
This was the old days, loving the night life, loving the boogie, loving the disco rounds.
He danced like a chicken on a wire. The mirrored ball bathed him watching him perspire.
The two of us, dancing at 54. He said, have we met before? I said, we did more than meet, I listened to you snore.
The lights on the dance floor bathed us. We had turned blood red. He said, I don’t remember. Are you sure it was me in your bed?
He needed some proof. I reminded when he sat in my chair my chickens flew onto his arms. My chicken shit in his hair.
He said, now I remember. Chickens, how can I forget?
It wasn’t me he remembered. He remembered the chicken shit.