I give you
A sketch of a perfect
Valentine’s evening:

Right hip at the barre,
Heels together, feet in a V,
Up on tiptoe, perched like a
Stork in mid-air,
Deep knee bend, hips tucked up
And staying in ‘the work zone’,
Big old thigh muscles
Parallel to the floor
(Or at least they should be)
And screaming like my Fiat when
I’m on the phone and can’t
Shift gears,

Following verbal cues
From our Pink Rose of an instructor
Who prompts in the gentle, reasonable
Voice of a
Prison guard
Saying, Pull the shank out yourself and
Get back to busting rocks.
And pulse it out to tempo.

Poised here on the brink of
Peanut Brittle of the spine,
My friend Tina Hulse,
Who asked that her
Name not be used,
While doing the extra leg lift
For the challenge,
Turns around
With the look all our faces
Share,
That slack but pin-pointy look of
One who is ultra-focused on
Making the body obey the brain,
And making the brain obey
Christopher Walken,
And says:

You know you need to blog about this.

We sort of look like this.  Sort of.