Chorus

The goose had laid the golden egg,
cracked on a dancer
in a pantomime of gold
waxing her lyrical and
yolked, stoic as a Covent Garden
mimer, struck like a
statue, still, levitating over an empty cap
for the wrong audience, shopping
in a lane of dreamers,
dancing for an absent queen,
striking gold in
poses,
watched,
never seen.