No Moves

You laugh at the face I make when the boys call me ma’am.
I tell you stories of the ex-boyfriend who can’t stop drunk dialing me.
We eat ham and lettuce wraps with way too much mustard,
but it’s never enough mustard, and you offer me mints when we’re done.
We talk about leaving, about escape, about winter.
You try your damnedest to get me to dance right there in front of everyone,
but I can’t do it no matter how many times you ask.
No matter how many times you dance right on into me, trying to share the rhythm.
It’s not that I don’t want to or that I can’t or that I’m embarrassed.
Okay, maybe I am just a little bit embarrassed. Still, that’s not why.
I don’t dance because that’s my last resort, my holdout, my mystery.
That’s all I can do to keep your intrigue all to myself for another moment, another day.
Your persistence and shy laughter are all I’ve got left to claim.
I don’t dance because you want me to, and that’s as close as I’m gonna get
to you wanting me.


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