Categories
Poetry

Little to the Rest

A well and working woman 
who deducts a merry toon
from each her small and meager check
as the many seem to swoon.

And of those of which are watching
are a merry bunch indeed
as they near the whispers of the toon
to which the dancers freed.

But there's no one who can hear it
save each dancing on their own
it's a song to help the watched
feel just a little more alone.

When each sway feels like a tumbling
and each touch brings in more fear
its the toon that slows the moment
to a dull unbudding cheer.

Then the touches feel like butterflies
and the hoots are owl calls
and the people round the stage
are white rabbited monocles.

And the moment becomes something blurry
but the songs continue on
so its easier not to notice what's happened
till work is over and it's dawn.

And that's the nightly cycle
a working dancer must repeat
as she blots away the bruises
and ignores her aching feet.

There's someone in her corner
who she'd slave for any day
They're a small and kindly child
that she just want's to see and have stay.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *