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Glass

They too had planned for la dolce vita
waiting for the 7:10 on Track #5 to whisk them away -
away from the boredom
the open-ended gestures
the semicolons -
only to be returned
side shows up their sleeves
prestidigitators all
the towers tolling another wishing hour
overwriting the previous 744,600.

A dog-eared copy of Cliff Notes holds the key
to this rat's nest of bottlenecked Geri-Chairs and Hoyer Lifts
questions dangling
vacant expressions captured mid-void.

You too are among the chosen
among those advancing to the finals
confused
indifferent to the cut of cloth
the secrets of Icarus dumbed-down
back pockets bulging with respites.

Your fingers tickle the ivories.

You listen for the sound of your parents.
You walk in the footsteps of your parents.
You have become your parents.

There is no cab awaiting your departure.
No bell ending the round.
The season has changed
the community room repainted and recarpeted
for incoming Freshmen
ill-formed products of texting
truncated, housebroken
laden with knock-offs, gloomier than Milton
idols of the kings and queens of darkness.

You should have asked for a doggie bag.
They should have asked for a doggie bag.
We all should have asked for a doggie bag.

Too late.

Review the script before the table-read.
Before the run-through.
Try to nail it this time.

Scene 1:

The iron gates open to Philip Glass's Metamorphosis.
A unknown figure autographs the bibs of those who ask.