Little Dancer

Bucket in hand, rubber-gloved,
he stands – mid-corridor. A door
ajar; most of the students,
long gone...a fleeting glimpse.

Catches his breath; mirrors,
wall upon wall – capturing
an arabesque; a reflection,
blushing at its own beauty.

An enchanting slip of a thing...
hair, swept back in a chignon;
tendrils, coyly flirting
with her shoulders. Black
leotard – red pumps;

Margot Fonteyn in ‘Giselle’
sprang to mind. Oh, that he
was Nureyev – scoop her up
in his arms.

And yet, he is transfixed;
rooted to the spot...reluctant
to break the spell; how he wished,
like hell, floors cleaned themselves.

A quick pirouette – she turns –
quips “Any chance of a lift?
See...I knew it was you all along.
Could smell the cologne Mum
bought you last Christmas.”

Right there and then, a pink-cheeked
janitor, said, ‘Farewell’, to a
‘little dancer’, and took his
prima ballerina home.