Me, a poet, and a ballerina

Tomorrow I hope the clocks all stop, 
and as the hands slowly tick-tock their way to a halt,
the rest of the world follows their lead.
And it's like the first snow of the year, 
instead of the 10,000th rain.
Everything just pauses, 
and the earth feels comfortable in its silence,
at home in its magnitude.
I hope everyone freezes except me, a poet, and a ballerina.
For once, my short strides don't keep me straggling behind anyone else 
as I pad through the resting world on slippered feet
side-stepping parents waving to a stationary school bus, 
dodging careening bicyclists mid-signal with outstretched arms. 
I walk until I reach a theatre where a ballerina pirouettes, 
floating under the stage lights as she jumps and lands, 
her pointy shoes scuffing silently on the stage, 
trampolining illuminated dust particles which amble through the air,
awkwardly dancing with her.
I lean against a back door, motionless as those who surround me. 
I hold the moment to my chest as I hug myself and turn away,
clumsily twirl my own way across the street to the coffee shop,
where a tattooed girl behind the counter watches her drip coffee suspended above its cup, 
and everyone is still, including the poet
who sits in the corner and gazes out a window,
only his eyes darting from the tabletop to the gray sky outside,
until they widen, and he grasps his pen 
puts it to his lips
and brings it to the pad of paper in front of him,
the scritch-scratch of the ink on the page 
finally breaking the silence.

ViolaLover9

OR

YWP Alumni