I try to speak, and my tongue tries to run,
and tends to trip when strong words come.
The rhythm and pace of his steps taste
like sweet songs that almost land with grace—
into your ears. But hopefully, you hear
the plopping of boots that my tongue tied loose.
Even when he trips and falls,
know that his words still risk it all.
When his dance becomes daring,
and his stutter turns to swearing,
his beat becomes apparent—
because no words, and no walk,
no pucker nor path
could portray the way my tongue trips up
taking to you at last.
