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Forgotten Lines

An overturned car at a fork in a road
on the TV in the husk of a 7-Eleven
where I sit near a noisy cooler with crayons
and a blank phonebook:

they are no longer here
no longer anywhere
their identities no longer known.

I draw on the moon and the stars
and visit their neighborhoods
delivering emails to shut-ins.
Their shoes take on different meanings.

A faded curtain in a remote village.

A Mayday unheard.

This ends Act One.

In Act Two, marbles are divided
among the players

one with a cat's eye
filled with the shadows of roads
leading out of town.

The veins on the back of his hand
tell another story
to be serialized on cable.

A stagehand asks for directions
to his high school reunion.

I find myself among strangers
some well-heeled and beautiful
standing in a hallway decorated for Halloween.

They wear masks and are fluent in foreign tongues
their conversations flavored with memories.

Nearby a string quartet tunes their instruments.

The rain has seen this before.
They too will run out of time.

A bell sounds the beginning of the third act:

teachers scramble for their attendance books
littered throughout the building.
Their lesson plans are projected overhead for all to see.
Some hide their eyes.

Hall monitors have their hands full.

I stand alone in the middle of a stage.
I've forgotten my lines.

The other actors exchange phone numbers.