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