The Dancer

They are, we are.The first dancer when the music beat up deep from within as we slowly tap the pencil sometimes on a tattered notebook or we glimpse as the drumming from the roof the rain that first fell can they listen to the nib of our pen? or the sudden outburst of scratch or imperious soliloquy stood and walk for a while then look out on the window a simple gazed reluctant the world it is as it was the clock ticked on the wall and when it stopped rushed to grab back the pencil on the head