Dance In Time
Back when the palms of his hands
weren’t scarred by calluses
and his feet were as nimble
as the sticks of a percussionist,
he danced with her in a space
lined with metal filing cabinets,
bruised, dented and scratched by time.
He twirled her
and she spun like a ballerina,
unfurled her out from him
toward an audience of desks and chairs,
before reeling her back
to her safe place.
On this day
when hands had been rested from day-long toil
and they danced,
he hoped the strength of his arms
would always be her reassurance,
and the laughter
leaping from her belly and hitting the walls
would be background music
they tangoed or sambaed to
on their way through the years.
This is what he recalls
as he sits in his living room,
many seasons later,
watching her dance in a box.