tin and paper

The dancer’s arms are lifted high,
An endless show of grace.
For many years he’s wondered why
She’s turned away her face.
I know – and I could tell him this:
It’s crinkly, plain and pale.
He dreams one day she will be his.
Unlikely tale.
He’s just a soldier made of tin
Pretending it is steel.
She’ll never take an interest in
Whatever he may feel.
It’s tin and paper, chalk and cheese:
What else is there to say?
For many years I’ve watched them: she’s
Aloof - and he’s insane
To think one day he will succeed
In conquering her heart.
Unlikely tale - but still I need
To keep the two apart.
No fire, not a breath of breeze,
No paper boats – I lock
The darkened room and hide the keys.
I stop the mantel clock.   
I watch in silence – not a chance
I’ll let the dancer fall
Into his arms. She has her dance.
He doesn’t count at all.
I do – but here I am, alone
With hope that’s turning stale,
Retelling to myself my own
Unlikely tale.