I should've asked you to dance
when,
in my mind,
I saw your red dress of slick silk melting off your body like plastic
revealing your beautiful olive skin and perfect breasts.
I was just a boy, and with no idea I ran to get a beer for some words of wisdom,
a Miller High-Life, "the cham-pag-knee of beers."
You came over and I was as tight as a chastity belt,
but my left hand, fearing Carpal Tunnel Sundrome
and an entire life of flapping my jack,
kept ordering and shoving brews down my throat,
until my clothes melted off of my body
like a chimp's fur melting off in evolution.
And I, naked and completely unashamed, tasted like beer,
and you tasted like margaritas.
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