Painting Poem – Degas
The incessant chatter of the corps du ballet fills the yellow rehearsal room.
It is never quiet when they are there.
Always,
there is their twittering talk,
the soft rustle of their many-layered skirts
the clicking of toe shoes
as the girls bourré across the wooden floor
with graceful arms raised high.
There is the crinkle of their satin ribbons
The hasty, rushing steps
of tardy girls
down the winding stair.
Celeste, it seems, has caught cold again.
Huddled in a red jacket, she sits to one side,
Her coughs increasing the whispered melee of sounds.
The others pay her no mind –
After all,
she will be over it soon,
and the ballet mistress will scold her for not stretching.
It is not their task to fret over her.
They all have
a passage where they must be careful not to stumble,
and rents to pay,
and jobs to keep.
And so they pay her no mind,
fluttering like fluffy white snowflakes
floating through a yellow sky.