Uncoordinated Grace

The radio is playing a song about a girl

I will never meet in a city I can't afford.

I have a grapefruit half-peeled on the counter,

the pith like a bitter skin under my nails.

The doctor said move, so I move.

My wool socks catch the linoleum—

a sharp, high-pitched squeak

that sounds like a mouse being stepped on.

I try a spin and my hip makes a noise

like a dry branch snapping in a winter wind.

I am a mess of elbows and bad timing,

shaking my weight in the kitchen light

while the juice drips onto the floor.