"Everything old," they say,
"is new." Let's dance into
the next decade like it's last century.

Eschew the coy charm of some Romeo
to dance cheek-tocheek
with a new Valentino.

We seek Cole Porter "naughty,"
leaving hip-hop
for Gatsby glitterati.

Take the appletinis; we're going
back to bourbon, rocks;
jazz and sax.

Let's put guys back in spats,
with pencil thin moustaches,
who can woo vamps who coo

promising sexy choices
with throaty voices.
Silhouettes of femmes fatale

are back in vogue. While smoke smolders,
drifting off cigarette holders,
they swing Charleston,

and papa goes Dada as
Samba beats settle over drums
pounding Tommy-gun rhythms.

Trumpets blare brassy tones alongside
the wail of clarinets,
the doppler slide of trombones.

We seek evenings of nightclubs,
art deco cabarets, or passing
some speakeasy's bolted doorway,

only opened by sentries
after whispering the password:
"I was sent by the twenties."