The Ballet Studio

He shuffles in whiskey-perfumed with a dash of the laneways outside. An incongruous, scruffy old mongrel on the shore of a sea of flamingoes. He rubs his hands, pleased to tread the musky floorboards Away from the cold awhile And watches, rapt the little princesses flitter-flutter gaily. His favourite eludes him, briefly, Though radiance, undimmed draws him in And he relishes in her smile. Unworldconscious like a kitten she plays, now a blonde little rabbit, And the resemblance is too, too much. He aches pains, stabs, burns To hold little Sam again. Across the hall Mrs Simpson spies him, Notes his unwarranted interest in Victoria, Strides over. I'm sorry, she says. You'll have to leave. You're making the girls (parents) uncomfortable. I'm sorry. Her nose crinkles disapproval Her eyes betray her words And though she doesn't want a scene She notes, with pleasure the approving murmurs nearby confirming the victory. He sighs then Humiliated, Emasculated, flees Defeat-hunched shoulders drooping... I wasn't going to hurt anyone. I just like to watch the girls dance.