I dance in clown shoes.

You compose your conversations.
Fitfully gesturing with whatever you hold,
ending arguments with a flourish.
Make a point, now whirl, quickly.
Make it impossible to counter with your unpunctuation.
You duck and weave, spin, sidestep, pirouette:
One, two, one, two, faster, harder, stronger.
You leave me confused and two steps back,
just far enough behind to appear lost and unsure.
And if I catch up, if I make a point,
you spin again, a trail of words falling like pixie dust
as you make your escape.
And as you storm out, you slam the period behind you,
Ending your sentence with a door.
And I must follow you, my thuds down the stairs preceding my statement,
trying to catch up before the page break.
Now I capitalize a W, and follow with an a, i, t.
And you pause, spin, speak, gesture, spin, continue.
A waltz to counter my four-four.

You don't dance your words-
you speak a dance.
You speak a dance Baryshnikov couldn't follow.
You rapidly reverse the rhythm,
changing tempo in a blur of sound,
conducting your opus with hands to match.
Then, as you end your symphony, you bow.
You bow your head, turn on the car, and drive away.
And my two left feet shuffle me back inside,
your concert still ringing in my ears.