Found in an old combustible negative:
Pink prom chiffon, four-inch heels. Bubble hair.
Hey, no make-up, pretty pink lips,
faded washed denim hips,
dimples and arched brows extensively penciled. Who are you, jeans with torn knees and expensive sneakers?
Hello again, spaghetti-strap tease. Fingering my smooth knees
under the Duchess table on Sheridan Square. The flames burned so long ago.
Has it been forty years.
I know this for sure: still surges the fires
the flames licking towards O2. Hot spots. No need to douse. They make me sing, Party Girls. Now it is time to dance on
at least in the mind
till the club doors close
and again we seek fresh East African coffee,
eggs over easy, hash browns, rye toast with marmalade.
Can you still taste them? The Party Girls.