Zydeco

The party spun out of

control. The music thummed

and rattled wildly overhead

as drinks spilled and girls

squealed with flirtatious laughter.

The twinkling white Christmas tree

lights strewn around the crown molding

were off center and dangling perilously

close to the gyrating bodies of the

revelers.

A light hazy smoke filled the

party air as couples and friends

embraced each other in their

shared hedonism.

The music and the partier’s voices

mingled like jambalaya, bodies pressed

in on bodies, hands held waists,

arms locked together as lips met.

Sweat.

 The windows were wet with

condensation, the neighbors were

furious with condescension. It was

a single dancing and drinking

moment never to be repeated by anyone. 

A bra flew across the room. A great cheer

arose. Empty bottles fell off a table to the

floor, the music kept going, the crowd

had lost all perception of responsibility.

They had become the music. They had

become the essence of life, of bone

marrow, of blood and raw humanity, of

the ancient tribal tradition reeling around

a fire.

They would emerge forever changed,

every future moment to be judged

against this moment.  Maybe it’s time

for a slow song.