Diary of an American

there they flit across the stage those dancers

i always wanted to be

degas is calling across the years but he has

painted out the pain

the ugliness of the feet

in satin slippers

they make you forget, the satin shoes

that covers a multitude of callouses

built up over years

blunting the pain of trying 

on pointe those feet 

chasing ever and on dancing on

the aurora borealis

beginning then, with a man in navy blue

his peacoat dusted white with snow

and music 

and Blake’s ephemeral word pictures

immortal-like

he was not

and nobody tells you what to do

when the music ends

and the shoes come off

the flowers die

the killing snow descends

i hear him still 

what if 

haunts me 

–diane o’leary