Venus Fly Traps on the Patio

They stand like weeds at the edge of the patio.
Venus fly traps, now catching butterflies.
And the sounds that rise up from the floor mask their voices.
Looking just for now without their hands, just with eyes.
They stand like vultures at the creeping up skirts,
And they fumble, drunkenly, at their creeping down zips.
Discussing with mumbles, the drunken discussion of which
One suspecting victim they would pick.
And then with one foot they begin to walk,
advancing onto the dance floor,
Eyes on the ‘prize’.
The smell of body odor begins to rise to the nose and eyes.
The loafers stick gently to the floor yet too quiet for the victim
To turn, look up, and crawl away.

They are a meter apart now, she with her pack
And him sticking out like a fucking sore thumb.
And though the other friends growl and warn,
the alcohol has blocked up his ears,
and worn down his sense.
He begins his first move,
step to the left, topple to the right
With the arms flailing in front, as if he was in a fight
A seven limbed assailant.
Then the hips start to jerk,
in a awkward-like fashion, this weed wrapping himself around her
in a sticky-like fashion, with no sense of style or fashion.

Then in old man-like fashion.
He trips while going too low,
Trying to get a glimpse of something down below,
And with now a bruised knee the weed retreats,
To a corner of the bar,
his sleeves now rolled down like bed sheets, and his eyes on the floor.
And now all he does is look, but not too intently,
Like like a crook and more like a hobo,
Looking but not really existing to those who are around.