The Dancer
Like an old cat stretching her limbs in the sunlight
Warmth seeping through knots in her gnarled hands and sShe sits on a paisley chair in front of the East window
welling in her stiff knees
Pressed roses tumble out of scrapbooks and fall around her feet
Those supple feet with the developed arches and pointed toes
Who quiver when Chopin plays on classical radio
Chopin…all those days in the studio with the accompanying pianist playing Chopin
At the barre…on the floor… before the long mirrors that reflected every nuance
She sees herself now in the mind’s Polaroid
The backdrop of a room stuffed with ballet programs, photographs of performances, newspaper reviews, pointe shoes, and Romantic tutus…Memorabilia of another life…lost in the brume of aging…alone…without applause
Sitting by the East window until the sun moves westward
When she struggles to take a bow
And the curtains close against the dark
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