Coronation Ball
every girl is drawn by the DJ’s pied piper tunes.
Since the few men present are eunuched by age
they do not tease with Burlesque moves
but dance a contemporary quadrille.
Thirty princesses representing  Sheppey
and  Margate, like cropped photos
on a misleading tourist brochure,
conveyed by mini buses to this corrugated hall
to witness another coronation.
Bikini clad contestants bold as Bond girls
replaced now by 14 year olds in bridesmaids frocks
stammering out year 9 options,
not knowing where to put their hands.
A few mums squeeze into Top Shop dresses,
mount 6 inch stilettos and trespass on the dance floor,
frowning over steps obscure as teenage slang, as they
teeter behind daughters who have grown into their shoes.

Fiona Sinclair

If you have any comments on this poem, Fiona Sinclair would be pleased to hear from you.