On Your Birthday

Your teeth will grind against each other
like your inadvisably high heels do
on the sidewalk as we stroll down Second Ave.
(or is it Second Street?),
to the Bistro to meet with friends and family.

You will be nervous
and will flicker just as frightened
as the candle flames reaching for the safety
of the ceiling from our table.

Your spirit wobbles like the chairs with uneven legs.
Why do you falter every time I gather love for you?

You tie your hair back, out of your face,
like it was the first time I could glimpse
your forehead, and I forget
if you are even trying to impress me anymore.

I would ask you to dance if I knew that you did,
but you never dance; not with people around.
I’ll ask later, at home, with the shades drawn,
and when you are in a pair of my old sweatpants,
my discarded gym couture.

You will be in a thin cotton tank top
asking if we have any ice cream.
We do, but I’ll only scoop it after
we dance, because we have all of your
favorite records and all night, too.