Cotton Tutu

Men dressed in black and grey barter over clouds.
The white puffs of cotton sit on the table,
their snowy appearance seeking to lie about their hot, humid origin.

One man reads from a newspaper,
seemingly oblivious to the buying and selling.

Another man sits and examines his handkerchief.

And the cotton just sits, until it is taken away.

Soon, its pure whiteness will be blue,
Dyed from indigo from the same hot, humid origin.

It will become a useful textile,
Until it is too old,
or simply out of fashion.

Then it will be thrown away.



White tutus with pastel sashes
and pink shoes tied with ribbon,
move as one at the command of the instructor.

A small dog observes the proceedings,
enjoying the view of the graceful forms.

They've been there for hours,
day after day,

The little old man with a cane,
choreographing and coaching,

and the little dog,

and the exhausted ballerinas in their tutus.