Waltz

Your half moon fingernails flick
like dust on the ceiling fan blade,
almost-silent whirs that say
somebody is home.

Around my head you draw
imaginary halos
with your pointer-finger,
ring-finger
index-finger tangled
in my pony-tail,
and we're dancing with our backs
to the walls.

I pretend that you're a poem
and read you quick like I'm
performing spoken word
and you're microphone
so close to my mouth
that you reverberate.

And the cat twitches his tail
like he should have been
included in our turned around feet
counting
1-2-3
1-2-3
1-2-3.

It was a waltz after all.