the belated, painful pirouette,
as you slide in gray wool socks
across the dark kitchen’s spotted,
linoleum-greased, sullied back,
dressed only in flannel pajamas
and a grin as cryptically heated
as cool gin in an empty stomach,
reminds me that this lover’s dance
could last for a melodious eternity
if only the static-band playing now
could find the last page of puzzling
piano chords and soulful, low cello
sonatas that first lured our lost eyes
towards the other’s that maiden night
we clumsily spun deliberate circles,
circumnavigating the other with sighs,
finding music in one another’s touch,
while dirty, chipped dishes watched
from the sink, soaking in soapy water.