Musings on Dancers in Blue by Edger Degas
Legs bound into pointed satin shoes stretch out lean, pink muscles.
Morning glory skirts are frozen in mid rustle around the dancers’ thighs.
Eyes scan for flaws, fingers fidget with brown curls.
The orchestra’s dissonant cacophony as it tunes itself
Signals for the anticipation to begin.
Lips long to whisper excitedly but
The four dancers are paused in their routine,
In a dusky world of pastel brushstrokes.
Today Maya and I braved the Paris metro system on our own on the way back from the Pompidou. High on art and too hungry to think straight we ended up strolling around from platform to platform, holding pinkies and swinging our arms in a cheerful but slightly confused way. We were lured down one passage by the sound of an accordion and discovered a busker playing very loudly about three-quarters of the way down the tunnel. We paid him and he responded by following us around with the accordion. When we were done listening we tangoed down the rest of the tunnel. It was a grand exit but we ruined it by taking the wrong train. We had to return by the same busker a second time several minutes later wearing sheepish smiles. In the end we made it back to our apartment, hangry and tired but having managed our epic navigation on our own with success.