At the Ballet

by Robert Rothman

I was at the ballet tonight. The dancers, older men

with thickened bodies and lined faces, were doing

the performance that made them famous, each moving

in his own orbit, grounded and whirling, arms extended

and then brought to sharp concentration, weaving in

and out of one another, the measured tap of feet on the

wooden floor where they ply their trade each evening

for audiences who for the most part pay little attention

and make small talk and eat and drink. The dancers seem

not to care, even to expect it, though in the bright

faces and honed expression a wistfulness, which

gives the composition almost a tragic quality. Each

man wears the same jet-black pants and double-breasted

white shirt, topped with the toque blanche: like

elegant white herons gone old and broad in the beams.