Unsequined

Now that my floor is nearly clean
of all its filth-fuzz imperfections,
I feel like I should be dancing on it -
it's almost bowling alley-smooth;
it's so utterly without grain or grime
that every time I put my feet down,
I have the urge to pirhouette,
to triple-lutz like my quasi-famous
former figure skater of a third cousin,
but I squelch it.

I bottle up the need
because I'm not at all sequined; no,
instead I'm wrapped up in a hoodie
adorned with hot chocolate stains,
characterized by seven months
of constant daily over-wearing,
and if I started sliding around here
like the fucking Sugarplum Fairy,
I'd no doubt instantly trip over
the stretched-out cuffs of my pajamas
and hit the cool, fine-textured tiles
as hard as I just scrubbed them,
and what would be the fun in that?
Someone would find me in the morning,
languishing in a sticky pool of my blood,
and all my hard housekeeping work
would be for absolutely NAUGHT! -
and we can't be having that, can we?

No, we can't,
and that means I'll settle
for sitting rigid and squished at this desk
and ever so often running a tentative toe
across the unblemished dancing-ground
that now exists in here, all around me.