The Seventies

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.