I put my hair into a bun.
To keep it nice and neat.
Lights on my face resemble the sun.
I say prayers for my feet.
My face is made-up,
large grin layered, too.
My dues are paid up,
my face, a scared hue.
I take my last walk.
A moment to collect my thoughts.
Not a second to talk,
I no longer feel distraught.
It is my turn to take my chance.
This is my turn, my turn to dance.
Anthony Martello
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dance-40/
