Ballroom Dance Morning

My eleven-year-old twins won’t get up
on Thursdays–ballroom dancing
in gym class. He feigns a stomachache,
she bellows: “Not in a million years
will I ask, ‘Can I have this dance?’”
I cut his nails after breakfast:
“Why didn’t you leave me
my nails to pick when I’m nervous?”
I turn a palm up to emphasize
an anecdote about my own fifth-grade
sweat. After putting lunch in backpacks,
my daughter takes my hand
in hers, cups the other to my shoulder.
She counts 1, 2, 3, 4, as if her day
is meant only for this; leads me the width
of the kitchen. My son cuts in, takes me
for a spin while humming the numbers.
Then they’re out the door.