I imagine you doing ballet in your spare time
On your music box with the other toys.
My mother had a tiny music box on her dresser;
The circular machine fit snuggly in my ten-year-old hand.
I would crank its key and listen to its song,
Sometimes unscrewing the lid to watch its wheel turn and its teeth tick the keys,
Sometimes placing my finger on the small metal keys to mute the notes,
Feeling the vibration travel through my pinky,
The metal cold on my fingertips.
I haven’t been to your home before,
But I’m positive that you have one just like it
Resting on a dresser or the mantel of a fireplace.
It probably has a porcelain figurine, a ballerina,
Or a picture of you -
Or maybe they’re the same thing.
John Spiegel is an English teacher in Springfield, Ohio where he shares his love for words, beards, and vinyl records. His poetry and essays can be read or is forthcoming in Marco Polo Arts Mag, Indiana Voice Journal, Garbanzo, Birds Piled Loosely, and Vine Leaves.