So a Ballerina Walks into a Biker Bar

Her tutu is luminescent,
a white net catching the darkness
with her powers to spin.
Digs jerks his chin, nudges
the closest stool mate,
Five bucks she trips on a peanut
and so we recognize beauty.
The bet: A single arabesque in a biker bar.
First, the rise to relevé. Then the arch,
pulls up, waits for the weight
of her entire body to balance in its cup.
Slowly, she raises one leg. Like scissors,
they separate, ankle high. Flirting,
she raises a leg knee high.
Finally, her body tips at waist high,
bowing to physics, to the bar,
to the men now frozen, bets laid.
Then, it's the rush, the flight,
the sweep downward toward the earth
and teasing with the hand's stroke,
the leg raised now, a clock
striking twelve, an arrow shot,
the finality of one straight line.
But, she's not done.
To succeed, she cannot wobble
must stick it, sweat it, points
of pain radiating upwards
as one slender ankle shakes
through two whole beats of Lynard Skynard,
trembles as the smoke shifts,
the tracks change,
the long silence before the next song.
Then, the quad shivers, a fast descent,
the grimy floor. So,
a ballerina walks into a biker bar.
She leaves, a little unsteady
in her toe shoes, stinking of cigarettes,
beer, bills stuffed in her tutu.

Suzanne Parker

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RL