The passion of the rat race ribbons
Greased for gumshoe detectives
riding high on metamorphosis
slipping over the canyon into the abyss
Was not the question in the coffee
when the clouds of cream stirred
your worried mind to think?
Mondays are always stuck in the mud
my tires spinning
into infinity
whipping the dirt
into frenzied backpacks of schooling
which I never learned my lessons
lined notebook paper
holding me hostage
with a sharpened pencil
and the teacher's biting tongue
sour apples
the ballet dancer's career is not dance--
it's grace.
Look into the mirror, it's so flat that you could place your hand on it.
The world is round, ask a shipbuilder.
No use staring at the mirror
no use staring at your navel
Tie up the ballet shoes
and make a butterfly
hang a wing in shame
to your colors
your being
and your bang, bang, bang.
What is at the door?
Oh nothing, just a delusion of grandeur.
Tip him and he'll bring the car around.
Carry my luggage
swirl this mess into dice games
and crap shoots.
I'm just throwing sawdust at the moon now.
Image source:
Ballerinas on Window Sill in Rehearsal Room at George Balanchine's School of American Balletby Alfred Eisenstaedt https://www.allposters.com/-sp/Ballerinas-on-Window-Sill-in-Rehearsal-Room-at-George-Balanchine-s-School-of-American-Ballet-Posters_i3781711_.htm?PODConfigID=4990704&sOrigID=53680&upi=P43K8J0