The Royal Cellular Ballet
Four ladies in the corps in a row,
ivory leotards and silk skirts.
They bourrée across the stage,
foreheads tilting down to look
at the cell phones in their hands,
thumbs bourréeing across alphabets
on their screens. They are texting
each other. One posts to Twitter,
Finishing up tonight’s show.
Sold out. The clarinet is late
on her solo, has to set down
her phone, but recovers swiftly
and the audience forgets a few bars
in. They look up, hold their phones
out toward the stage. Everywhere
the dancing girls look, little red dots,
as if hundreds of laser pointers were
watching them attentively. Click, click,
click, the sound of a baton against
a music stand, but the conductor’s
hands are raised, swooping like seagulls.
His ringtone. Who could be calling now.