Stomps One Foot
A child who dared to dream after sunrise
was a ballet dancer flitting around a ballroom
in a perfect petal-pink tutu, gliding
with arms spiralizing slender
tiny feet atop the ball, not the tippie
as is customary, except in her imagination
where the ties of matching slippers
lace up skinny kindergarten calves and
plain brown hair was arranged like
a bagel on her head so as not to
encumber her focus or hinder
the sophisticated battle cry in her mind…
then the turreted lift, a pleasant landing
back straight as a defiant plank unflexed,
and compact limbs which shear the air,
each entrusted with a muscle packet needing
no momentum whatsoever, just pockets
of pure energy, poised.
For this ante meridiem charade, a chorus
of dancers were twirling
she is but one part of the whole, swirling,
equidistant, until…
her mother in her oatmeal streaked
apron peeks
in to check
on her progress and shrieks
‘you’re supposed to be getting dressed!’ the girl
stunned, cries defiant
‘I am!’
