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Milk BarThis 4th Street studio was always dark and surprisingly filthier than the sidewalk that framed it;
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a stage too small for mimes and ballerina types.
We figured that out in the eighties, but these dancers here tonight weren't even born yet,
nor was their producer.
So there they were, thumping around on the balls of their feet, freezing to death without a lunch break,
like the slavish, big-boned bison they'd grow up to be.
Us, a handful of has-beens in the audience - essentially the only benefactors left
and as we looked on, the reasons why were becoming unclear.
For twenty bucks a show, three nights in a row,
we applauded their resilience marked by starched tutus, sooty tootsies and sternum tissue-issues in uneven bunches...
such muchness on training-wheeled unicycles.
None of us missed that 4th Street bullshit
but we did miss being that adorably forgivable in the midst of molding our future selves
from the feathered depths of an indoor landfill.
The show was over