Madonna of the Pterodactyl Club

I want to say his name 
started with a “B,” but really, 
who knows? The walls
were pulsating with sound,
all senses slanted as one.
 
He told me I looked like Madonna—
singer, not saint, and I laughed 
at the improbability. Still, 
I wanted to believe him there
 
in the dim strobed scratched club
as model pterodactyls circled overhead.
Maybe that’s why I let him kiss me
again and again, submerged in a world
 
of antediluvian zeal, watching the dancers
rise and fall, turn and turn across the floor,
see their evolutions in this beer sodden 
 
Eden.  Who was I to question the way
these things happen, the way someone
looks at us and sees a Madonna?

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