Such a Good Dancer

Desperate to be part of the night, 
we jerked like a bunch of spazzes 
to that screaming eunuch, Michael Jackson. 
Randi Muelbach kept remarking 
You're such a good dancer!
drawing closer, letting me grab her 
saggy ass. My boogying was a sort 
of two-step hip gyration while holding 
my plastic cup of grain alcohol level. 
I had perfected the arm that remained still, 
kept it out like a bird feeder. Randi 
glued elbows to waist and swung 
forearms, hands and hips furiously. 
She was sweating something fierce. 
Her perfume was foul swamp flowers.

From the futon on her floor I watched 
her pull her dress over her head. 
Fat and sadly flat-chested, 
legs already bluing with veins, thick 
knees knocked in, the way the back 
wheels of a Volkswagen buckle with a load. 
Disgusted with myself--two years 
in college and still a virgin--I would 
stick my dick in a girl and end that. 
As she stepped out of her underwear 
I said, After tonight I don't want us 
to ever talk again. OK?
That's what I said.
She looked down at me and said 
Sure, like it was nothing.

Through the cinder block walls 
I could hear that whole dorm writhing 
on a Saturday night. Even Kim Putnam, 
the born again who wore only long skirts 
and was losing her hair, was getting banged 
and moaning like a wild woman. 
Sometimes it sounded like a crowd 
ooh-ing and ahh-ing at a car accident; 
sometimes I heard the night as one fuck 
xeroxed and traveling room to room 
like a rumor, or luck--good or bad, 
either way, I wriggled and fought 
on top of Randi Muelbach, 
who kept whispering in my ear 
Such a good dancer.