Retired [an ode to irish dance]

Medals and trophies retired- I’m tired
Tired of toothy grins and “Oh you were just so close”
Tired of poofy wigs and broken twigs stabbed into my feet
I accept it- I’m beat and so I retire

I accept it- I’m beat and it’s time to retire
I don’t inspire and my head’s on fire
Red I see, red. I see red on the gold now
And silver is blue and bronze is too familiar

What’s too familiar? Me? Honestly?
With my one competition a week policy?
Honestly- I’ll finally admit you were better
There were twigs in my feet, my cheeks should’ve been redder
And since now I’m on the topic of truth
Bloom of youth spent popping bones in my basement
I face it, honestly, I never liked it anyway
I was good for a spark then gold benchmark turned gray

I lost it, feet frosted, embossed satin dress frayed
Black laces replaced with the basic white sneakers
And the music coming out of the speakers
Lacked the jump and the hop and then eventually stopped

The jig was up- I hated the jig
Hated the way my wig always slid
Now and then I forgot I was a kid
While moved by a leprechaun from the control grid
Dancing feet morphed into cement blocks
Got stuck with sock glue to my bedroom floor
Mind wondered about hundreds of books I never got to read
Eyes wandered as mind pondered so I took the clover off my sleeve

You can keep it, I’m retired, feet are tired
Uninspired, Can no longer box step as required
Can no longer say that I admire the lord of the dance
And his sheep-like choir

So I take off my shoes and hang up my feet
Harangue about blisters and competitive sister
Repetitive practice, dress felt like cactus
Red gold sucess and bronze put to rest.

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