Spanish hips

[Pauline]

My Spanish hips have woken from their siesta
and are busy entertaining the wrong sort of hombre.
I want to dance for you but you’re not here.
Insincere apologies float amongst melancholy fruits
in warm sangria, and disappear
down the throats of random borrachos
taking advantage of forgotten rules.
I tango with unfaithful gringos
beneath a piñata of good intentions,
which sways above my tipsy judgements
like God wagging a disapproving finger.
Tomorrow will I suck my dehydrated
recollections between my teeth,
and apologise?
Por que?