The Stage

The stage is black.  The curtain is closed.


Sit and wait as he might no clap of his

will cause you to step onto the stage

and sing  -“Luck be a lady tonight”


In his joy, he miss judged  you for a gentle son who’d

be open for coffee or talk and never leave  for good

How could you after all you’ve accomplished?


Does the thick fabric of the curtain hang onto some

of your DNA where you rubbed as you rushed by

to change your costume for the romantic scene?


Are there skin cells of yours on the make-up brush

that helped your eyes pop so the person in the back

could gage the twinge of your expression?


Is there a hair of yours on the jacket

that you wore when you went outside

to rehearse your lines and get fresh air?


Did you leave your voice in the creeks

and falls of the building, rhyming in

rhythm with carpet hairs and the very foundation?


Is there some magic left that a father may find

or did it leave when you killed yourself?

Author: annieepoetry

I am poet. I am woman. I write with my thumbs. Read my poems. Tell me what You think. You may find the love poem you always thought someone wrote for you. Or the one you meant to write But Becareful lovers tell zingers and often break hearts Milky Way Earth U.S.A Madison WI

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