get lost

I was only 16.
but I dangled the Riviera
like a cigarette ash
brushed from the breast
of my black sequined dress.
I cruised the Casino Croisette
with the scent of my sex
tracing the palimpsest
of the naked that I was -
dancing there with Bob -
on the rooftop of the Cotton Club;
strutting down the Promenade,
singing Sinatra
& sudsing the Grand Hotel Fountain
with the frothing of being 16.
Gliding half-nude through the moonlight,
I traipsed down the Felix Faure
with a man who was 34 -
poetry
gleaming from every pore.
On the Cote d'Azur
I would dance on their tables
knocking hearts to the floor.
Back then,
men would buy moons for me-
dangling them
long into each sunrise.
And I'd slender my eyes
at the blending of
tropical dawns
on the cobblestones
on the stumble home,
frolicking dangerously
with the King of Nice,
who is on his knees
for the flattering slur
of my poem.