Wax Poetic (A Moment)

Story Behind the Poem

By defintion "wax poetic" means to become increasingly verbose and romantic in speech...to become more and more like a poem. I titled this work "Wax Poetic" as a reflection of the overly verbose and showy language I used to discuss a pretty typical occurence. Though the entire concept of meeting a girl in the club is non-eventful, for the most part....I think we've all had that moment where you've been blown away by someone when you met them, and while in retrospect you've been able to temper your enthusiasm, at the time you first met, that small moment felt much, much, much bigger. That's the concept I wanted capture here.

I've had the 'Wax Poetic' concept in my head for a while, but was unsure as to the subject I wanted to wax poetic on. That was until I caught myself in a real life small moment, that I knew was small, but felt like it was big nonetheless. Accordingly, I went for the gusto with this one---I wanted to make it feel like everything was in slow motion, and generally, just make a big production out of something that, I reiterate, is very mundane. Thus, though gaudy and brassy lingusitically, this piece is pretty straight forward, and loosely based on real life, 10/10/09, a night at Luckie Lounge in the A....


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The best thing about the club these days is the little eye contact game.

You know, what I’m talking about. Through a crowd of dozens, the simple meeting of two sets of eyes momentarily slows the earth’s spin on its axis.

Wondering if it was meant for you, that which is uncertain quickly becomes evident as her gaze lingers that half second longer than chance or coincident would allow.

You turn your head away, without really looking away, giving her the profile of your good side, confident that your ten dollar line up is earning its keep.

She taps one of the girls she came with….her evaluator, her sounding board. And out the corner of your eye, you see the friend look up at you and then smile back at her girl, a single nod.

Approval.

Having passed the test, you move through the crowd a bit, positioning yourself in close enough range to grab that dance with her when a worthwhile song comes on.

After all, it ain't no use in talking to her if she can't move a lil bit, you know.

Praying for the DJ to play something worth dancing too, bullshit like the “Stanky Leg” or “Turn My Swag On” won’t do….not for this here moment.

Not with this here woman.

All the while, still playing freeze tag with your eyes...you sense that she knows what you’re waiting on….and why. And her girls, sense the smae thing, stepping back half a foot, to see what you gon' do. They're enjoying the show.

And then the DJ throws on that new The Dream "Sweat It Out", and you say to yourself "Bet"...so you work your way to her and.....

…some other nigga creeps up from behind. "Shit". That's what I get for bullshiting, you say to yourself. And you start to step away...

But then she looks up, but this time it ain't eye contact. Your eyes lock. And she's dancing with him, rocking slow, looking at you.

She’s teasing you, acknowledging your frustration with a wry smile. And so you play along, finding yourself swaying to her rhythm...

The DJ has switched to “Knock You Down”….and while you’re not quite there, you can dig the song a bit more because of this moment.

And in the middle of her dancing with this other cat, while your eyes are locked, you nod at her to come where you are...

And for some reason she step's away from him.....mid dance . Rude

You'd swear the dance floored divided as she strided to where you were, as if she was one of the chosen ones questing for freedom.

Like the Red Sea, said she, "Hi"...and for the first time you take your eyes of her face, eye her thighs, and smile....she is shy, but fly...

Extending your hand, to the brown, 5'7'' inch brick of a woman., she graciously accepts. And commences to rocking and swaying.

And it is then and now which you are convinced that the DJ is on your side....because she tell's you that "Under" is her song.....

And you'll be damned if the DJ didn't put that shit on.

So the dance starts slow....searching for the medium and pace between your rhythm, hers, and the beat's.

You keep a respectable distance, clearly on her, but not grinding. She turns her backside away from you and gives you her front.

Eyes lock once more....and you responded by dropping your hands to the small of her back, coaxing her to meet you in the middle...

She crosses her wrists behind your neck and obliges...and now you move only to each other's rhythm, the music now an afterthought....

As the DJ works his way through “Number One”, “Think I Invented Sex” and the like, the dancing becomes more…..suggestive.

You can feel the heat and weight of the DJ’s eyes on you.

He’s watching you both, and rooting for you…..He got to be, because they don’t play slow sets like this in clubs in the A that often.

And it all is so right, right? You could be in this moment forever and not know or care.

You lose all connection to the concept of time or the perception of action.....so no doubt you're curious when you awake to see her sleeping.

Breathing...and dreaming beside you.

Being, beside you.

And you convince yourself that the calmness that you feel looking at her, in this state, is poetry.

And perhaps you did wax poetic a bit in the recounting of the tale......

But your eyes did really lock.....and you really did dance....and you really did feel...and you really did get the number...

And there is a tomorrow......so it's not so much waxing poetic, as it is speaking into existence.

Piece.