Slippers

Baby doll pink, and midly torn,

From years of dancing they are lovingly torn.

Messy buns and tutus,

paired with costumes that tend to be froufrou.

Ripped tights are alright,

Until show night.

Hushed whispers backstage,

Never acting our age.

"Point your toes!"

"No sikled feet!"

"You need to dance on the beat!"

Demi pilés and grand battements.

The teacher always on our case,

Making sure we were dancing evenly spaced.

Heavy makeup,

Hairspray,

Fast changes,

All our practice for four quick nights.

Seasons over they're tucked away,

For the summer all our dancing is at bay.

We don't mind, we don't fear,

They'll pulled out,

And danced in next year.