I kept taking photos of
your gate-crasher, because
she couldn't resist the music,
drawn in through open door
of the party restaurant
to where the guitarist sat,
in a corner so he wouldn’t be crowded.
It was all those
liquid Spanish tunes. How
could she have refrained, how ever,
And she was so bright,
in her shiny, slinky, green-and-yellow dress,
and she clicked her heels Flamenco-style,
and clapped her hands over her head.
And she kept apologising, softly, shyly,
in her foreign accent, but
she didn’t stop dancing, didn’t stop twirling,
didn’t stop brightening further –
as if under a spotlight …
creating her own spotlight –
the already-festive night.
(She gave permission for her photo to be used online.
We never learned her name.)