A bent pen skims Ms Skinner’s desk,
highlighting a musical athlete’s contempt
for the world’s desire to enslave her mind.
By the time Skinner drags her sumo bulk upright,
Piano Girl has vaulted the music room window ledge
and barricaded the door.
She dreams of living backstage,
in her own amphitheatre.
A tuxedo hugs her burgeoning curves
as she break dances towards her wood and ivory altar.
In the garden those vying to be her Adonis
are living sculptures for her guests perusal.
Prudish abuse of fig leaves
is cause for instant dismissal.
To high octane rhythms she chants
‘be who you are, be what you are
until the door of miracles is ajar.’
Every new piece is unplanned.
The fastest eyes are flummoxed
by her percussive sleight of hand.