TOULOUSE-LAUTREC'S NIGHT

Your hands move
mobbed by women
decked out in finery
and yellow lemony parasols
a fob in your glasses
with a critic's limpid eye
Henri Toulouse-Lautrec,
your hands move
freely from your pastel mind
winding downstairs
on the white balconies
your knees moving
with the dancers
ill at ease this night,
your hands won't stop
at the brushstrokes
of nervous energy
in a horny romancer's mood
shortened by the critic's dare
of a music hall interlude.