comedy

back to the boards
the stage set bare
on the bones of
the voices
Ophelia pleading her weeds
the voices
Plath screaming Tulips
echoed emotion
pounded on the rafters
rain down now
gel lit dust
in its turn
glitter
the lines
in my mouth
cotton themselves
sweat themselves
cold

down on my
knees—fist
pound the
ground
what is it—you—want
from me

the telephone
rings—the
door bangs—the
children home—the
lawn begs—the
chores
of the day—of
the way I move—on
hard healed
steps sound
loud and
sure—the lines
flow from my
mouth—fluid
in delivery
tendered purpose—full

life is
comedy

psgates