I no longer have the shiny black shoes
with metal taps on the bottoms—
though if I did, they would perhaps sit
in the back of the closet along with the wigs,
the boas, the long black gloves.
How I used to love the sounds they made—
fa-lap, fa-lap, fa-lap ball change—
such a shiny, happy silver sound
that used my own heart as a metronome.
I was never much good, but I didn’t care,
I held out my arms with wrists upturned just so
and shuffled and clicked and smiled
for no one but myself. I think of that
today as I dance in the office alone,
it’s a quiet affair without the right shoes,
and I am clumsy with lack of practice,
but laughter makes a fine music
for everything inside me dancing.