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Intaglio

Your moment awaits in the wings
drenched in the solitude of nights
spent with the covers pulled up to your chin
the curtains in your room
choreographing the key to the question
you posted on Facebook.
Did you do it in jest as they’ve suggested?
As a gesture perhaps against the disarray?
Against the confusion?
You have continued to ignore the road
beneath your window
the one that weaves through violins
studded with the fingernails of minions -
the minions tattooed in relief
on your right shoulder.
You are out of practice, you know.
The knock at the door requests a refund.
The back door has been nailed shut.
Step up to the plate.
Resume your memoirs with the contents
of the certified letter returned unopened.
Nightly on the screened-in porch
you rearrange photographs of ne’er-do-wells
as familiar to you as the siblings you don’t have.
You had hoped your cosmetologist would reveal
the answer to the puzzle that sideswiped you
in the condiment aisle at Hannaford.
This too has eluded you.
How often will you prime the numbers of forgiveness?
How often will you exchange your face for a newer model?
You have been blackballed and blacklisted and blindsided
and now you find that your knees are giving way.