God, they interrupt my dancing,
voices crashing through
the music of the evening, shattering the starlight,
frightening the gentle creatures of the night.
God, they pull me down from heaven,
white, scudding clouds on windy afternoons,
when I have just discovered absolute perfection,
true felicity in meter, pitch, and tune.
Some will caution, one cannot be dancing
always, there is work one ought to do.
Well, sir, I say, why can’t a girl plié
and pirouette her way across the room?
As she’s dusting, she can sing a lusty
song to lighten up her heavy load.
Where is it written, she must drag her toes
across the floor like little bags of brittle bones?
God, they interrupt my dancing
and I cannot hear my own sweet song.
Please silence them a moment.
If they will but listen, maybe
they will dance and sing along.
Everybody dancing—stranger things
If they hear me singing a new song,
maybe they will dance and sing along.