The Dancer
A poem.
October 29, 2010
The Dancer Small flamenco aspirant
no more than six
dances with a surety
that she is what some think
she might become,
– the restaurant patio
her stage, indiscriminate
music from a loudspeaker
her guitars, empty tables
her rapt fans –
tiny hands curling furiously
and exaggerated twists flicker
sweet sparks in an artless fire,
and just like that she skips off,
her mother's voice the final olé.