the bastard director is opening the third act
first gold, then brunette, now dark
the audience has dissipated, yet the curtains part once more
the orchestra is quiet, the lights dim
and a lone monologue
with a flair for the obvious,
the playwright plods along
with no trace of direction
only dead air and deadweight
while the crickets chirp steadily
along with the rhythm
of the flickering torches.
sold out yet empty
one shrill voice reaches for the rafters
and finds only itself
slinking through the cobwebs.
must i wait out this same melodrama
year after year after year?
the doors open, the doors close
the ushers smirk and stroll the aisles
the supporting cast make the same old gestures
drone the same old lines
and the leading lady never shows.
three acts straight, with undying uniformity
the voice trails off with muted restraint
the curtain falls, silence unbroken
the lights go down.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Scott Taylor would be pleased to hear them.