When Old Dancers Die Poem by Cecil (cj) Krieger

She was a dancer
But now at age sixty-seven
During the day
Her ghost leads small groups
Of aging seniors
In palates stretching
Several times a week

She was a dancer
And though her feet
Remember every heel and toe
That she had ever done
Arthritis keeps her
From ever thinking
Of a simple lockstep
Ever again

She was a dancer
Whose feet flew
This way and that
Across every stage
From New York to California
But was never chosen
To be the one
To play that special role

And though
She is sixty-seven
And the direction of time
Can never flow back
Somewhere
After the sun departs
And night time covers the land
She closes her eyes
And still dreams
Of the time

She was a dancer