Confessions of a Pedestrian

The kitchen counter becomes a barre—
plié and soutenu by the sink,
smooth linoleum floor a studio for adagio.

Cambré brushing the air to the floor,
passé an angle moved through en route to développé
unfolding how long and how high.

I practice port de bras and pas de bourrée
in private moments, frappé and piqué,
indulge in pas de chat and pas de cheval.

Sissonne, the leap like scissors,
assemblé when feet meet in the air.
Glissade like sliding on ice, the racing chassés.

Empty corridors beckon, tempt
with lengths begging for balancé,
halls made for waltzing.

Petit jeté, happy as a sailor
in a red and white striped shirt
dancing on a dock to an unseen accordion.

I have squandered tendus on street corners,
fondus in the elevator,
coupé by the copy machine.

As time and age conspire
against my arabesque, lower my line,
these words, remnants of hours in a dream,

seep through my body,
along with the delirious turn
that had no name.