lost in bologna

he thought he was dancing, lost in Bologna,
tap tip tapping while he swayed so clumsily
in the piazza, his white and powdery hands

moved in soft caresses, lazy moths of veins
fluttering and floating, and the clever streets
held laughing to his uncared shoes, brown

and starved for his affection, toe heel tap slide
point turn repeat, around the birds gaggled
in dismay the intruder brought his show,

and our debonair found a silly pirouette to please
the lads who followed every step and sang a
jolly little air, filled with f.astaire's fine tenor

and he thought he was dancing, in a lover's grip
round and round in a lover's spinning tango,
and he heard the crowd's applause,

lost in old bologna,