I’m chasing you, if only slowly; I’m
still in pursuit and every step you take,
each baulk and side-step, every shift and fake,
delays your capture, not your fate. The time
is coming, little one. The dance must end.
I see the footsteps painted on the floor.
I hear the music, feel you sway your hips.
I notice everything: the little slips,
the way you dance—no longer quite as sure.
Be certain, darling girl, I’m not your friend.
We know whose arm you feel around your waist;
the music slows; you know it’s growing late.
Your steps pretend to flight, but you are chased
and you will fall. You know it. I can wait.