Music Does Not Compute

Real Robots Can’t Dance

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Hours at the barre, feet traipsing wood floors
While instructor pounds incessant beat with her cane.
Stretching, flexing, warming up, cooling down,
New tights torn in enthusiastic ambition
To honor the music, the ones who came before her.

Let the music flow, the instructor insists in gravelly voice.
You are the channel, the music is the flow, you are partners
In creation, her voice breaking for quick swipe of cheeks,
Face hardening as cane resumes its BEAT BEAT BEAT.
Without you, music falls, fails, is nothing but sound.

Newcomer spins dizzying whirl, an endless swirl of effortless,
Perfection made all too real for panting, sweating elders.
Stops when the music stops playing through old-fashioned speakers.
Instructor eyes flexible, pliable, virtually life-like version of dancer.
Never again, not in my studio, she declares to the class.

Newcomer is hurried from mirrored room by attentive acolyte,
Class watches silent, a few slouching in direct disobedience
Of Madam’s stern-faced…