Our Sonata

Twirling, spinning madly,
To the sound of a scratchy record,
Holding you close, hands in your hair,
You glow with the music, lights shift under your skin,

Arms round your waist, to lift you when you slip or miss a step,
Legs to lead you away from despair,
Your lips hanging in a smile that needs no prompt or appeal,
Carpet worn and red, like these hands in your hair,

Rubbed raw, from labor that makes their motion never ending.
Yet they know when to hold still,
When a skipping beat draws one to your hip and one to your hand,
When that carpet comes to life beneath us, supporting our feet,

Pushing them in circles that it has felt since it was soft like your skin,
For you’ll never grow old, time can’t purchase a hold,
To pull your skin from your bones or bend your spine to the floor,

Even if it could I’d bend too, let my body fold and stoop,
Because whatever comes, be it direct or serpentine,
We’ve an obligation to this carpet, girl,
Twirling colours, chasing rhyme.