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.