by Hea
Enter stage left, it's never right, the house sits eagerly on the edge of its sticky worn seats. "Costumes" yells the instructor my mind stomps it's feet with a why bother! More than ready to abandon this leather faced sack, a weary traveler saddled taught, who's back riddles it's own burden in 28 tattoos, drawn by crayon, markers and a bubble blowing pen. My trusty jeans and t-shirt, popsicle stained given flair, reveals hidden truths In the all too roomy leotard i wear. Popping a squat I scour my bag nothin' but my pointes, reaking spoiled sweat. Grabbing with haste, noting their aging despair, not bad , i tell them all things considered, hardly holding the pale that once shined with my spit, now hidden in an archaic dinge. My tights must be on break, lot's to tuck, under battle torn toes , I tell them to huddle, bind and crammed in my one size fits all pair of shoes. I criss and I cross, limp ribbons whining both of us frayed round the edges. Stretching and extending, rotation down pat, I take to the bar not sure who's looking back, better to stand in the unaware. I curse the clapping and it's uncalled for racket, just give me the cello, let my Saint-Saens begin. positions, pirouettes and of course grand plies, a story well versed yet utters no words, the horizon calls, though I've no space to fly, my feathered arms faint in their waving, starting to quiver, tortured and tormented, I allow the descent, one last arc perfected, one of so many times. Stilled strings announce the quick of my pulse, the panting slows, the audience blanketed in hush. It's applause muffled, as is my own, the shows over, exit stage left.