Dance with Me

Following an interesting discussion I have reposted this very old poem from my first book  – unedited – it is probably here among my earliest submissions.

High above Eastbourne
On Beachy Head
I installed a Palais de Dance.
A bijou saloon
With chandeliers and a glitter ball.
Pilgrims mounting the grassy slope
In need of a breather
Can stop for a spell to mull things over
Before taking their final plunge.
I provide herbal infusions or tisanes –
Breakfast teas or coffee would be wasted
On hot-wired clients
Heading for heaven in unseemly haste.
April is the cruellest month
My soft leather sofas packed
With Easter leapers who ‘really must fly’.
I crank my Zonophone
Playing well-worn platters,
Jealousy is a punters’ favourite,
I favour, Goodnight Vienna,
But that’s just my sense of humour.
Swaying to the rhythm,
I give them a chance
For one last languorous
Sultry dance.
I am a youthful Tiresias,
And sometimes, Teresa.
My dugs unwrinkled,
My eyes undimmed.
To the men I’m irresistible:
My long satin ball gown, slit high
Tantalises with hints of upper thigh
Fuelling hopes of torrid nights ahead.
And memories of passions past.
For the women:
My patent leather shoes are so shiny, 
I could see my face reflected –
If I had one to reflect.
My black silk suit with
Best dress shirt,
Plunging open to my chest
Inflames long unsated
Private lingerie dreams.
Three minutes dead is all they get –
A whirligig of memories or hopes of
Lusting ahead (sans regrettes).
Until the needle clicking signals,
“Time up. Time to choose.”
A katabatic retreat perhaps,
“Due to unexpected circumstances – a death postponed.”
Or as I croon, Vaya Con Dios,
A quick two-step over the edge,
Their pockets filled with pebbles
To make the passing 
So much slicker.

© coolhermit 2023
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critique and comments welcome.
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