The audition

The Audition


The janitor’s metal bucket clanks

in the corridor. On dark wood

my shoes are pink lipstick blotted with chalk.

Unbinding the tight ribbons,

my blue fingertips shake,

whilst the bruised glass of my feet

holds the used music quiet.

Outside the night pulls indigo silk

over the high windows. I see myself prise

the long fingers of flowers from my hair.

He’ll wash the floor now.

I take my pink shoes and run.



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