I envy Pearl. She always had a pale face, tiny ankles, and dull black hair. Before ballet on Mondays she used to claw at her father’s back, tears racing down her numb face. She always barreled down the studio, in tight leather slippers and on knuckled toes. Once Ms. Liz grabbed Pearl’s arm and Pearl slumped against the mirror. Tiny smudge marks ran up the glass from her moist back. We swore she had never been so still, and as she sat, limp, her brown eyes darkened as she glared into wrinkled fingers, palms, and wrists that we sometimes grimaced at. That next Monday, Pearl’s mother was in our studio holding Pearl’s hand and yelling at Ms. Liz. And when it was time to pirouette across the floor, I missed Pearl’s torpedoing body as she dizzily bumped into the white washed walls that a man named James, who always tried to talk to us and to whom only Pearl responded, cleans as he wears silver sunglasses, leather pants, and black boots. And I missed waiting on line as Pearl hunched over the fountain, bangs dripping into the water as she slurped it up and waited until Ms. Liz pulled her up by her bare shoulders. On Mondays during stretches, when Ms. Liz talks about her boyfriends to the Polish pianist, we don’t have anything to say, and I’m starting to understand what the babysitters whisper about in the waiting room. I envy Pearl.
The wind that comes and goes e p n L a i g through the air like an absurd Frog As I step out my door the wind gallops at full speed toward me pushing me back and slamming the door SHUT!
PS: the magic page that will always jump you to the latest poem is "http://www.saintannsny.org/depart/computer/poems.html"