when the woman in my music box

dances me to sleep on soundless nights,

my dreams stand stretched in arabesque.

long, slender stories, alabaster

lulled into being by a ballerina’s song

– balanced and balancing –

but when the jingle slows,

softens to match the soundlessness of my bedroom,

my dreams lose their footing

and stumble to one side.

and i feel sorry for

the woman in my music box

in such a stationary stance

with and unchanging soundtrack

and such little room to dance.