Teaching Him How to Two Step, Again

Parkinsons, a repulsive pantheon
parked over us, like a thick and fat pissing dog
an imminent edict: time’s tapped out,
slimy-slug slap,
a snot dialed p-a-u-s-e.
Hell’s hiatus, let’s be honest,
before actual death then Jesus. But
in between off-course and confusion,
apparitions and imaginary dial ups,
short term memory on sempiternal sabbatical,
I see, and sweetly so, he still likes
to drink and dance, the two of us
taking turns, playlist touring
our favorite songs. On nights like these, 
our fear disappears,
fades into walls, 
into quiet neighbors next door we never knew,
despite their flowers, flags, and twinkle lights.
I teach him how to two-step, again
while bubbly lasagna bakes
to sop the 19 Crimes we both now freely drink, 
numbs this new station, shitty twist, 
and wonder if I’m contributing
to the intoxication of a minor. {{{You know?}}}
Decide fuck it. He’ll forget tomorrow, but
remembers now and how much he loves me,
his smile a comely cluster of clean teeth,
eyes pulchritudinous and pitch-dazzled
no less ablaze than the night we met: 
hearts clenched in knotted anticipation,
dissolved by scotch, 
as we sucked the cosmic honesty from one another,
while chasing chicken cordon bleu with Glenlivet
at O'Henry's back corner booth shadowed by priestly palms,
his Middle East sojourns safely past,
then going to my apartment just off New Garden bypass,
flanked by Fresh Market and Little Mario’s Pizza,
to dance and drink some more. And like tonight,
our nugatory cluster of disquiet feather-dropped
for a sweet night hibernation.

Carmen Noel Eichman-Dorr is an English instructor, adjunct, Delaware Valley University and Ph.D. student, English, Liberty University. Carmen has two Pushcart Prize nominations and poetry published in Spring Board Journal, Subtle Tea, Borderline, A Little Poetry, All Things Girl UK, Dan River Review, Invisible Ink Poetry, The Argotist Online, Contemporary American Voices, Literary House, and Camel Saloon.