You skim the dog-eared blue-lined notebooks
lying next to your bed
for new words, different words
to ease the ache of repetition,
the ache of the old.
The hour arrives at the wrong address,
laughs, lingers, and you forget the difference
between high and low drama
the loss surfacing after closing
as if it mattered to the rent-a-magician
left waiting in the Green Room,
wand in hand, as generators,
prepped to weather the nor'easter,
exit through the gift shop.
Again, the rehearsals proved futile,
frustrating, the French horn player
running the changes
through his backward-facing bell
making it new, until, in an eyeblink,
it was old, boredom seeping in, abracadabra! -
the furniture, the cat, and you, gone.
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| Alice's Last Last Ouija Game by Paul Grand |