The bolero was composed for you and me.
For all the ten year olds drawn
to the plastic dials of the radio,
drooling a bit perhaps,
swaying uncontrollably as the air
in the room tensed, focused
on the sweet vortex of the singer's voice.
Our breath caught between
the violin strings and the keys
of the piano, the soft beating
of the cowbell in the shadows of the song.
What did I know of that word querer
as I slow danced with a clutched album cover?
In another part of the city, you listened
and rocked in place. Both of us dazed
as the voice lifted us.