…and the old ballerina tune,

wound up clock and short of breath,

is replaced, the tacky and old

manufactured plastic, her skirt dead,

faded grey to the point of translucent poison

now gone, displaced, placed in a sack

and given away, not bearing to suggest

that the tip be the final resting place

for the entertainment and love shown.

 

In its place, the song remains,

or of something similar,

up to date and strong on its spring

heels now encased in wood, polished

and with the memory of Paris

and the plane that circles

and dances, moving in a way that a ballerina

could never attain;

the plane will go missing, lost, crushed

accidently under foot one day, but the ballerina

will always live in the melody that caresses

the ears.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018