She stood crookedly at the desk
on that first day.
‘I’m Jasmine.’
(Surely Kate or Jane would have suited her better)
Forty-something and heavy,
with a body
that had rarely moved,
and a sad pigtail
that hung down her back
like Eeyore’s tail.
I wondered how she’d go -
If she’d turn up again
next week.
And was pleasantly surprised
when she did.
Even more so
as the weeks
turned into months -
and the butterfly
that had been for so long
cramped in its lumpy chrysalis,
began to emerge.
Seems she’s doing something else
on Tuesday nights now.
Pity.
Alison Cassidy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/butterfly-dancing/
