Umbrella’s lighter offshoot

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.