When the Holy Spirit Danced With Me in My Kitchen
the first thing I noticed was his arms,
thick and hairy like a bricklayer’s
with a tattoo of an anchor
as Churchill had.
‘Coming for a spin?’ he grinned,
in an accent more Geordie than Galilee,
and he whirled me
through tango, foxtrot and waltz
without missing a beat.
‘You’re good,’ I said. ‘Thanks,’
he said, taking two glasses to the tap.
‘You’re not so bad yourself,
for someone with no sense of rhythm
and two left feet.’
He gave me a wink.
‘It’s all in the waist.
The movement has to start there
or it’s dead.’
‘You’ll find it applies to most things,’
he went on, grabbing the kettle.
‘Writing, cooking, kissing,
all the things you’re good at,
or think you are.’
He winked again.
‘You don’t mind me asking,’ I said,
‘but why are you here?’
‘I thought it…
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