Out of depth feeling, fear-filling
in an iced vanilla stage.
Everyone puts on a show
so we watch the other stages
and forget our lines.
And who plays who?
Frozen fillies at the hair shop,
silent at Welty’s dryers,
until someone yells, “Annnnnd cut!”
Fifty years late, they turn and look.
“Don’t you look at me!”
“There’s no show here.”
Offstage, a cup brought to my lips
can’t find my Picasso face,
lips have shifted somewhere else.
I’m found out. I cannot belong:
I hold the wrong script,
A blank cover.
I write for them, they act my words
The way they want to act them.
And they are no longer mine.
Blow out the candles on the stage.
Dance for me like this.
Sing for me now.
In the dark, apply stage makeup.
Let endorphins flow down nerves
of a different body
than of the costume of your work
to the tambourine
of tutting trains.
Shout steamy screams.
Alone as always,