My Personal Ballroom

As I sang the song that played in my head,

I grabbed the closest available dance partner and twirled about the room.

Suddenly I was in a lovely ballroom,

dancing with a prince.

Gold coated every surface in its grasp.

Gowns of all colors, filled with news of the latest gossip,

glided about one another trading rumor for rumor

until they bubbled over, releasing giggles to signify their newfound knowledge.

The gowns blurred together as the music grew louder, and the dancing quickened.

Perhaps my voice, as out-of-tune as rubber band guitar strings,

is not the kind of vocals the guests would hope for.

Perhaps “Stairway To Heaven”,

is not a ballroom ballad.

Perhaps my dancing, consisting wholly of spinning and stumbling,

is not the proper footwork.

Perhaps my cat Schnitzel, who hobbles around with the appearance of a permanent wedgie,

is not a royal heir to the throne.

And perhaps my house, lacking space for more than ten guests,

is not where a ball ought to be held.

But I sang and danced anyway,

Ignoring my sister’s ridicule as I finished the song.