Centrifuge

The bass is thin and the treble is high,

I’m swinging my hips while the seconds go by.

One sock is grey and the other is blue,

skidding on floorwax and spilled mountain dew.

I spun for a girl that I haven't seen since,

and hit the fridge handle, a sharp little wince.

My elbow is throbbing, the rhythm is wrong,

but I’m still alive in the heat of the song.