(Not exactly a poem, but it came out in a form that just wouldn’t work in blank verse or prose.)
I loved the wooden floors that gave,
the sticky crumbly woody grains of rosin.
The girly-voiced babble, the lightness.
Each idle move a task ground down to perfection
under a pale pink satin-covered darned tip of a shoe.
The way the lazy winter sunlight made
speck-filled trails from the windows to the floors.
The solid, polished, familiar wooden barre.
Predictability, and structure, and discipline
Beneath the yearning to be light, surreal,
nymph-beautiful in clouds of net and tulle.
The solidity of practice, solitariness of perfecting,
solidarity of routine with every other dancer in the world.