Dream without Hollywood Ending

The night is bright. We dance the Green Chihuahua.
China saucers of Bacardi break and spill
across the rolling deck, slide overboard.
You are three parts blissful lightning, four parts cloud.
Nobody’s needs are noticed. Music swells.
Someone is singing shanties. You claim it’s me.
I say Aye Aye in Urdu. A tall wave
breaks over the bow. The chilling sluicing foam
plays havoc with the deckchairs, clears the deck
of the less light-footed dancers, including us.

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