Saturday Morning Ballet Class

Before the class, girls run weightless
from parked cars, then crouch
with soft angularity on the steps;
one stands parallel to the wall,
waiting in the third position.
Stocky or stripling bodies
give shape to austere leotards,
doll-pink tights; for some,
chignon already replaces ponytail.
Only a courtyard away, I shudder
as their ballet mistress rouses,
condemns. Unfit but free, I mull
over Saturday morning newspapers
to the accompaniment of folktune,
tango, neurasthenic nocturne,
and wonder what movements cause
that bold thumping on the boards,
or wreathe the piano's tinkling
in such concentrated silence.
Enacting peasant, vamp, sylph,
lithe bodies arch and leap and stamp.
What images of woman will each girl
choose or reject, make for herself?
Outside, a mother strolls beside
her frisky toddler, a car crammed
with middle European aunties
fills with smoke and argument.
Soon the dancers will step along
the vine-covered sidepath — energy
seeking through every leaf
its perfect form — descend into
dusty air, daylight's flawed crystal.