In the grand ballroom, after the lights went dim,

though I had promiced not to dance with him.

His strong arm slid sweet round my tiny waist.

A hidden, forbidden, most unchaste taste.

Only the stemware lingers now on  tables,

In the great banquet hall; Stampede's stables.

Rodeo to rodeo, horses in thier best.

Now the shiney server; bow tie and vest.

"Ever seen  thundering chuckwagons?" he asked.

The white gloved waiter fills shimmering glass.

Conjours visions, wet mud, canvas flying.

Equine flesh; power straining, defying.

Later we socialized by the great door.

Boards over the stampede ground floor.

Fridgid and clear blue,

plain sailing, like good friends are;

we start to melt, snow!