So many footlights burned out
spotlight leaning askew
curtains removed, scrim gone
proscenium arch stands stark.
Program says Act Three.
Audience hushed, anticipates tragedy.
Director expects me, in shrouded black,
to slump upon the floor.
The script be damned . . .
it’s my chance to be a star!!!
Black over-sized poncho
is thrown to the floor.
Behold my sequined skin tight leotard,
fish net stockings over varicose veins.
Audience gasps at my tapping frenzy ~
shuffle ball changes, wings, and Rockette kicks.
I finally decide.
This addendum to the script
shall joyously end!
I wink at the conductor, astounded in the pit.
Timpanist catches my drift
and gloriously booms
as I exit like a flying dervish
to joyous hilarious applause.
While the poem is not about me, I did take tap lessons from the age of 4 until my senior year in high school. I still have my own tap shoes (not the ones in the photo)!