Twinkle Toes

I was washing dishes one slow night,
watching the thin skin of soap bubbles pop
and lose their color to the air.
As a truck drove by the window,
I looked up into high beams  
and thought of a new name:  *Stella Starr.*

*Stella Starr* was too glamorous
to be pushed around.  I'd claw and crawl 
my way to the top, be independent. 
No one would be able to touch me.

As soon as I found out I wasn't pregnant 
from when that guy got mad at me,
I took the money my mom sent 
to Linette Lovejoy's Studio of the Dance.

Mom's letter said "it" happened to her
and a lot of other girls.  Forget about it or it 
would keep happening --
men could smell it on you.

But Stell Starr would dazzle them, 
show them I wasn't just some stinkin'
broad.  People would come
to see the fancy steps I learned
while dancing on bright yellow mats
covered with a man's footprints.
In the movies, no one danced without 
a crowd of couples clapping.

I had no idea how far away Hollywood was.
My audience was the same old men with soggy
chunks of cigar on their lips grinning 
while the young ones hollered *take it off   take it off.*
I did my "Happy Talk" number and they laughed.

*Where were the tap-dancing 
sailors who won wars
and knocked on doors 
while hiding flowers
behind their backs?*  

The worse things get,
the fewer questions
you ask.

Chin up, toes pointed, 
shuffle ball change 
and a cha cha cha.





copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer