Bell-bottoms swirled like slow-motion
waves across the dance floor, wide
enough to catch the wind, if
there had been any inside Studio 54,
where sequins caught light like
mirrors shattered into a thousand
tiny pieces, shimmering and refracting
into oblivion as the DJ spun vinyl.
Everyone moved like they’d practiced
the same dance routine all their lives,
even the shy kids in the corner
with their collars flared and polyester
shirts clinging to them like a second
skin, their hearts thumping to the bass
that seemed to be the only pulse
anyone cared about anymore.