The Dancer Poem by Andy Carl

Inside a wooden dresser
That your mother kept so neat
is a pair of ballet slippers
too small now for your feet.

But she takes them out every sunday
wiping teardrops from her eyes
and dances through the memories
of silken butterflies.

A pirouette a Pliee
A curtsy and a bow
the curtains drop,
the crowd explodes,
red roses come raining down.

And you stand in the bathroom
red wine dripping from your wrist
too sorry for yourself to see
the love that you have missed.

And you begin to dance as well
though all your grace is gone
it's been replaced by drunkenness
and whatever else you're on.

But that's the way the music goes
it starts off fast but ends real slow
up in the sky then down to the floor
Up against the wall then out the door.