Glass of Water Encounter

She dances only in her necklace, scotch-lit surely. He touches his glasses. Nightie-less, dugs whipping, hair sprung, some music inside, out, wet tongue tip at her lip, no mere palsied shuffle, both bony feet lifted, elbows awful. Shakespeare’s banshee of wailing parts, a woman with hair, a woman with warts. He’s fixed to the floor. Dear Heloise: do other presumed-sane mothers do this— wait in the dark after the ball to strip for their sons at the end of the hall? A dream, insists his sister but his first wife knows better.