Catwalking Poem by Ballerina With Fins

We are nine;
and catwalking.Clumsy
nine-year-old
feet striding proudly in
twenty-one-year-old heels.

Our faces painted. Giggles;
we cannot recognise each
other. Catwalking; just
an other route down the runway
of happy wonders.

What's at the other end?

We have teacup hats, the both
of us. We are sharing a silly joke.
fwonfiwoi. qerionwf.

(Oh, please.) (Kids.
They're still so naive.)

(Do you hear them whisper?)
(Those strange adults in their
real world. Do you think they
are worried?) (Maybe. What
about?) (I don't know.)

We could very well be
models, secretly;
without the rest of the
world watching.