Twenty-two tumbles from the tongue,

sets toes tapping, and I would be dancing

with you, if you danced; since you

do not (except horizontally, which you do

exceptionally well), I must find another way

to say, to show, that I would gladly go

toe to toe, hand in hand, along the sunny

strand (and shady too – yes, even when

life’s rains strain my fevered brain –) with you;

it’s true I haven’t got a clue

how I was lucky enough to stumble into

fumble into, mumble-bumble-rumble into

twenty-two rather splendid, never-ended

(I can but hope), years with you.