Ballet

I walk out to the patio and sit in my chair by the fence.
The sun’s gone down, and the lights come on.
They are the footlights of a stage, the part of the fence that the umbrella hangs over, but the performer hasn’t been seen for a long time.
Her name’s been taken down from the marquee. The marquee remains blank – no act could follow her.
I close my eyes and remember how she danced, how she sang.
Bravissimo, I whisper, and I pull a kitty treat out of the foil pouch, placing it gently on the fencetop.
Bravissimo.