Can Dance A Little
by Henry Quince
No chicken tries to judge, still less instruct,
an eagle in the art of flying high.
Yet human birdbrains gauge and, worse, reject
talent or genius, with smug authority.
“You’ll never come to anything, my lad!”—
so Albert Einstein’s teacher told his pupil.
And young Astaire’s auditioner—what clod
could write “Can’t act, can’t sing, can dance a little”?
Henry Quince has been an academic, jazz pianist, editor, copywriter, and voiceover man. He’s moved around, but now lives in Australia, near Brisbane. He’s had the odd poem or two published in The Susquehanna Quarterly, Modern Haiku, and Folly.