My hands

When my hands weren't enough for you

Counting down on broken fingers;

Five, four, three, two, one.

The dance begins; it begins with

One. A single step, whirling around

Within the walls of a city

In June.

The next set of footsteps crash

Against your own, and the dance changes from

Tango to waltz.

And as more feet come to compete

In these streets, toes meet at the centre;

Our graceful sweeps are left incomplete.

Our hands mistreat one another, repeat

Old steps, but offbeat and fleeting.

If three makes a crowd, then we all

Must feel pretty cramped in here.

We get battered along the way;

Some of us fall,

Some of us flourish,

Most of us get a little bit broken.

I count down on my broken fingers;

Five, Four, Three-

                                                -Two, One.

Our palms lock together, and we leave through the main gate,

                                Dancing a nifty little foxtrot on our cobblestones.