Somewhere in the attic of the mind the dancers wait,
in dusty light they practice pirouettes,
humming the tune
they want for their performance.
They listen, watch the clock, it is not time yet
so they whisper to each other, comb each other’s hair. Then
from down below,
the master of the theatre yells for them to come out.
And see, so gracefully they descend the stairs,
though nervous wrecks they are,
the music starts with ruffling drums:
a poem pushed into the limelight.