He’d had his chance
to dance
the faithful foxtrot;
the passionate polka;
the spiritual samba;
the wayfaring man waltz.

He had,
once,
started the music playing,
but then,
in his ignorance,
had hit several wrong chords,
and the dance ended.

The stagecoach turned
into a pumpkin,
and the glass slipper
cracked and shattered.

But he kept humming
different tunes,
until he figured out
which one was his
true
melody.

Which one
could be played
in hallowed courts.

Which one
would ring right
in her ears,
through her brain,
flutter her heart,
transform her soul
as his
had been.

He hoped she,
with her lofty view,
would let him
sing again,
high on the mountain top.