Danse Macabre (poem)

We were an unlikely pair:  you, quite declasse
   In your faded and dingy red sweatsuit;
Me, hardly more upright, it being a Friday.
   But owing to some noblesse oblige,
   Perhaps a fawning desire to please
Yourself, it could be--no matter, by streetlight
You asked me in silence to a most private soiree.
   Imagine my shock, feelings of dis-ease,
Imagine my face bathed in a surreal light:
   But insist you did sous la lune.

"Gimme all yo' money," is what you said.
   "What?" I answered most civilly.
"Gimme yo' fuckin' money," now angrily.
    "What??" I can't believe I said.

"This is a motherfuckin' gun,"

   you flashed it at me,
"Gimme all yo' fuckin' money,
    or I'll shoot you dead."
"What!??" (oh god) is what I said.

And so we began our intimate dance,
   Joined at the hands by a chrome-
Plated wish:  we whirled, twirled, and pranced.
   By streetlight we danced a pas de deux,
   Violently graceful beneath that moon,
And awaited one sound to extinguish the night.
Too rudely, perhaps, I broke our embrace
   And ran for the warmth of a well-lit room.
You walked away, chrome in hand, some benighted
   Suitor, tres triste et seul.