Hurricane streets.

The boy and girl are dancing on the sidewalk outside my house.
I can see them through the window,
half-hidden by severely-trimmed shrubs
at the foot of the driveway,
the tops of their heads just brushing blue sky.
Moving to a three-step beat, bumping knees and rubbing noses,
they waltz.
I lose sight of them for a moment,
but they stumble back into view, framed by the window,
and it is like a landlocked ebb-and-flow in my driveway.
The girl leads with her left and watches the toes of her shoes,
and the boy slips one hand down over her ass, laughing
when she swats him away. When they laugh,
they tip their heads together and clasp hands,
fingers opening and closing involuntarily.
I want to dance with them, but I am inside and
they are tripping over each other, tangled up
like a set of twisted fingers, intertwined.