Displacement Poem by Ballerina With Fins

The clock ticks
at a slow, slow pace.
Minutes chancing, seconds
announcing their dreary arrival.

Sarah's hair is very black.
Each contour curved and delicate,
pearl-like under the light.
I count the drifting strands,
one, two,
three,
five.

Underneath the desk
the rusty black paint is peeling.
It crumbles into scratchy soot
under the deft touch of my
imploring fingers, brushing powder
with the soft touch
of trickling fascination.