Spin. Spin. Spin.
But when she stopped doing pirouettes,
Jennifer spent her evenings with sushi, saké and cigarettes.
A citiot trapped with suburban sub-humans
who preferred bourbon consumed amid unnerving club music.
So Jennifer danced.
Though she worked days in a cafe for coin,
her greatest joys came on stage for Ballet Des Moines.
The focused type, humble but still could sashay with poise,
Jennifer danced and, when she finished, went backstage with boys.
This was her life: Defining her worth via Jack, Dave and Roy.
She'd act playful, coy, then retract ... until she met her match.
Terrence wasn't like Jennifer, but he liked Jennifer,
and he biked everywhere, treating life secular.
He was aloof, mostly — even his ring finger was preoccupied.
But they were on the outs, he'd say. Didn't speak oftentimes.
Jennifer, she'd swallow lies. Jennifer, she'd fall in line.
Jennifer, she'd tell her friends back home about this awesome guy.
Terrence took her to the city, to the hippest plays and concerts.
But he'd disappear for days, apologize and blame it on work.
But Terrence came by early the day Jennifer was late.
Her career tipped in the balance, and he's telling her to wait.
She wasn't ready to be a mother.
She wasn't ready to not be one, either.
He mentioned a clinic, swore it was a popular procedure.
But Jennifer wanted to define herself as more than a mistress here,
so Terrence kissed her on her forehead and disappeared.
The doctor's mouth was moving.
That's how she knew he's speaking,
something about bad habits, a thin frame and fluid leaking.
She was naked underneath the hospital gown,
so Jennifer danced because nothing else seemed possible now.
Spin. Spin. Spin.
And once she walked off her dizziness,
Jennifer found herself alone with sushi, saké and cigarettes.
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