The cameras rolled.
They would have to stop regularly because he would burst into laughter.
Sustained spurts of giggles were finally held back.
He made great strides, to the point that his acting seemed real. He would spend most of his time faking it.
Show him what you can do lover, I say to myself from backstage.
I have a fever of one thousand degrees
I’m too sick to drink coffee
He comes up and says hi, I have strep throat
He finally asks if I want a ride
Just the two of us, but I sit in the backseat while he drives.
He is loud and dumb
I exit at forty miles per hour
I miss the connecting bus, and the stores I go to are closed.
I walk past the railroad bridge near the shooting range.
I meet a very important lady.
She’s been discharged from the army and has a story to tell.
Prior pursuits prepare her for a first showing.
Her paintings beg nagging questions.
Are they really art?
Fifteen thousand dollars per piece?
Why do they cost that much?
Others spill their whole lives for song.
For nothing.
In a needing world.
She wants.
I lost my best friend.
No comments:
Post a Comment