The Little Ones

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It starts with an itch. A warmth at the back of your calf, causing your right toe to start moving, leading its four loyal friends to march along. Your left foot, not to be ignored, begins to twist and slide too. You'll observe your hands start rhythmically slapping on whatever is around you, a steering wheel, a desktop, the asses of co-workers. Then your own ass begins to bob and bounce; you twist slightly at the waist, as your arms flail above your head, two pythons slithering for the sky. Your eyes will close, your head tips back, and you will smile, and laugh to yourself, and maybe grab someone you love or someone you just met, or your unpaid intern, and hold them close. You will dance all night, make out, and get a parking ticket the next morning, ‘cause it was street sweeping day. This can happen anywhere, at any time. But it will only happen with the music of the Little Ones.