In a desert,
some guy —
I don’t remember his name —
was singing
about a horse
in a desert.

We danced in the desert,
but no equine, she.
So I watched
and saw
what she
and others
could not:

Her luscious pink lips,
parted slightly in a smile,
the gentle curve of her body
as it swayed to and fro
to the music
while her hair,
waved back and forth
as though a blonde mane
caught in a mid-summer’s desert
not sirocco
evening breeze.

The sparkle and laughter of her eyes
as they caught
and reflected
and augmented
the spotlights.

The brilliance of her smile
exposed,
as she laughed with youthful glee,
recalling perhaps
those teenage years
when she first danced
in mid-America
to that song.