Uncoordinated

The synth-pop is kicking a hole in the wall

and I’m doing my best not to stumble or fall.

My elbows are hinges that someone forgot

to oil or loosen or tie in a knot.

I’m lurching like lumber that’s caught in a gale,

my rhythm is flat as a rusted-out pail.

I pivoted hard by the bowl of the dip

and felt the linoleum give me the slip.

A black scuff of rubber marks where I spun,

horrible, frantic, and having some fun.