Acapulco

In shadows
shaped by oranges and greens, pulsing
hoards of empty drunks
in glitter shirts,
anesthetized by mai-tai’s , tequila,
legs that disappear at the buttock’s
mini skirt only to appear
bare belly buttoned
beneath tear drops of cleavage.
Only dolphins, in my head,
and the rose garden of a hazy girl who
grabbed my crotch tonight
and promised to bring me home,
sliding up her skirt and grinding
her heat against mine, the burn
of rum on her tongue,
her cauldron bubbling
over into my palm,
down her thigh.
Pulling me
into the techno heartbeat
deeper
into the privacy of the crowd,
Closer to home.