In Hoboken, New Jersey

On a dark spring night
at a party upstairs, I drifted apart
from the usual conversations
of pride and politics over by the couch.

I picked up a pair of maracas
and, spurred by syncopation,
immersed in the rich, bright beat,
I was shimmied and shook.
I was fluid and complex.

The Spanish women smiled,
onyx eyes glinting through chatter and guitars.
The beautiful women from Madrid
laughed with indulgent looks.
I asked, and they shrugged.
It's the rhythm, they said, but it's okay.