Carpus Cha-Cha

My hands dance.
Complete confidence
in their joints.
Controlled motion
only seeing emotion
in their well
pedicured
movements.
Rhythmically improvising
gestures.
A skip
in beat
making you look
at the vein
bumping to it's
own song.
And with merriment
they dance among
invisible instruments.
Appearing to
leave finger prints
along the glistening
porcelain, steal, and brass.
My hands dance.
They wear costumes
of glitter and graphite.
They're choreographed; staged
across parchment
and canvas.
My hands dance.
Tapping across your
skin, performing a
duet down your back.
Jiving through the wind
sticking outside the
car windows.
As they sashay over
lamp posts and street signs.
My hands dance.
And dance only with yours.
We'll do the boogie and
the cha-cha,
feeling the sweat mix
on our palms
between the love and
life lines.

When excited they'll

sh if t with the l ig ht s

creating a rave in your vision.
They enhance the aesthetic
movement enough to
be able to taste
their performance.
And the'll uphold their
pledge with a shake
and a slide.

My hands dance.