How could you dance through my Melbourne

kitchen when you were buried so long ago

in faraway Canada? A dolphin might as well

have swum up through the floorboards.

Is this how it works where you are or aren’t?

Plane you’re on clearly does not require land-

ing strips. You made me tearful this morning

so I told my not jealous partner about you.

You were never my girlfriend, just that girl,

that teenage friend back on prairie who knew

she was created for an even bigger stage,

while most were content to stargaze via TV

with wooden legs and bad reception.

So, you trained for it, did ballet as you waited

impatiently to jeté or jet out of Saskatchewan

where the arts, way back then, was a hobby.

Joni found her way to LA so it could be done.

You flew east to Montreal while I thumbed

west to deadend Vancouver hippiedom.

Most classmates found jobby jobs, married,

made kids but the unlikely few clung to their

Dream. I wonder who you might’ve become

if your lovely body hadn’t been discovered

broken in a freezing lane. Still, on this day

you pirouetted through what I assumed was

my space, as my bread became toast.

You appeared but didn’t speak or

acknowledge my presence.

It was as if I wasn’t there.