I’m a secret ballerina.
On Tuesday nights
at 2 am,
you’re in the kitchen
eating your flat mate’s peanut butter
with the lights out.
Once you told me how that fence panel got broken,
it was summertime and you were a pirate
(Swashbuckling always makes for innocent victims)
I creep through
at 10 to 2
on Tuesday nights,
and, using my
Prowess and Elegance,
scale your washing line,
stand aloof. Humming
Giselle’s solo softly,
twisting turning pointing toes
I pirouette immaculately in
imaginary tutu
en pointe in the moonlight.
That time you caught me
on Tuesday night
at 2 fifteen,
I had been
French kissing Russian Czars and
so put on my finest performance.
The kitchen light snapped on.
Startled cat
caught in the act
Poised perfectly among your
daytime tee shirts and cashmere socks
in Fifth Position.
The clothes line began to tremble,
pulling me down with you favourite
rabbit fur sweater.
You walked over.
Grasped me and heaved me up,
ashamed and vibrating,
coloured in with tell-tale blush.
I thought you might ask me inside,
to smuggle peanut butter or
sip rosehip tea.
Instead
you re-pegged your sweater and
told me to leave.
You do your washing on Fridays
now, and have it dry-cleaned.