The lady on stage sings "the dancers just won’t hide"
as we sit attentively
grooving to her fatass beats
dancing joyously in our fatass seats.

She wears tattoos with cryptic designs
that we can study more
as she jumps off her perch
into the crowd
before us
enjoining us to enjoy.

We comply quietly
shyly moving before her
beneath her
but refusing to get up onto our feets.
We continue dancing solely in our seats.

The singer works it
hard
and some join her in some spastic steps
sweating Stoli
or whatever else was drunk tonight.

The crowd gets into the spirit
with many more swallowing defeat
getting up, getting down
doing the singer’s bidding.
Meanwhile: we stay in seats.

Eventually, we’re alone off the floor.
Everyone but us is moving, grooving
approving of their own excited actions.
We watch.
It’s wonderful.
We view the whole scene, beside ourselves,
beside each other.

It’s an amazing night
with ample opportunity to exercise the right
to rock.
Still, we remain rooted.
We recline and
only at the end
after everyone has left
do we stand
abandoning our chairs
and limp
roaming all the way home.