This is where the dancers dance,
On campus, third floor of the academic building,
The one that stands tallest on the green,
Where nervous pale feet shuffle,
Trying to make some personal statement of passion,
Some last stand to the professors and,
Scrutiny of their peers.
It is empty now,
Only the smell and the spirit of some phantom ballet
Lingers and the large windows expose dust
Floating down to the hardwood floor.
It is perfect for writing,
All the Dancers mix and mingle with my words,
Take them up and around, dip them in a tango,
As my art comes alive with theirs.