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| Botero, 'Dancing in Columbia', 1980 |
Seven musicians, an overcrowded room.
A jukebox, silent in the corner. The cellist holds the rhythm
for the dancers, while the girl strums her guitar.
The mandolin player plays for her alone - though she doesn't know.
In the background a horn, clarinet, a flute and a piccolo.
Another night, another gig, another seedy cafe,
another broken heart.
another broken heart.
Underneath exposed light bulbs and shabby red curtains,
a couple flirts. He asks her to dance and they take to the floor,
kicking aside the cigarettes butts that litter the ground.
a couple flirts. He asks her to dance and they take to the floor,
kicking aside the cigarettes butts that litter the ground.
The cafe has the scent of oranges. Of sweat, tobacco and liquor
and cheap perfume. He holds her close. Thinks she smells good.
Her legs graceful, his arms strong. They glide effortlessly,
fingers entwined.
fingers entwined.
The horn player blows out of key while she sings,
caressing strings with calloused fingertips,
caressing strings with calloused fingertips,
reminding her of his touch. Her heart aches.
She envies the dancers and their wild abandon,
how their bodies move to a private tempo.
Another night, another gig, another seedy cafe,
another broken string.
Lay with me tonight, says the mandolin player
you are not alone.
© the dishonest woman
another broken string.
Lay with me tonight, says the mandolin player
you are not alone.
© the dishonest woman
