Dancers’ feet play chess
On the checkered dance floor
While Cadillac cowboys
Fill the air with western swing.
Matrons leave their bingo markers
In handtooled leather purses,
Dreaming of nights when
Lovers tasted smooth as whiskey.
They move across the room
Softly, sweetly, unwilling to
Disturb the mood, fearing
That tomorrow’s memories will
Sour like milk left on
A windowsill in June
Or lose shape like a frothy dance dress
Left on a hanger too long.