After the dance,
what then?

The satisfaction of self
or that of men?

The music has stopped,
the dancers prepare
to go home,
remove clothing,
wash, do hair,
prepare.

If only
the dance was all.

Paid sufficient,
paid enough,
not to have to labour
elsewhere or when.

She has danced
until worn
at feet and legs
and head,
but still to please
the men in bed.  

The ballet an art form,
the dance
as old as gods,
but so too,
the bedding
and loving,
and all such things,
that being
all too human brings.

While the music sounds
she's in
some strange heaven,
the dance lifts
and caresses
and loves
and thrills,
but after,
the dullness
of the stillness,
the unapplauding,
the waiting men,
wanting you
in their bed
for *** again,
and then?

Satisfied
and satiated,
they'll turn to their sleep,
wrapped in their dreams,
in their mistress
called slumber,
but the dancer,
the *****,
what for her ?
after the dance,
what more?