The second hand tap shoes are older than the feet they enclose
and the ensemble sounds like rain (and occasional hail) on a tin roof.
The music sounds underwater too and the only order is brought by the
barking fascism of the teacher's 'step and heel' and 'hands on hips'.
We are excluded from the room
to aid little concentrations.
The mothers behind me wear make up
to a State School hall on a Sunday morning,
talk about what they read in Who Weekly at the checkout,
and think private school education is a means to a bumper sticker
on the back of a Pajero.
With my palms to my temples, my nose to the glass
I avoid their reflections and look at the class
where Bridget is patient joy waiting her cue.
What is waiting for her? I wish I knew:
When dance class is over, I hope her life means
something more than Pajeros and Who magazines.