7/30 2016

Sometimes I wonder if he's in there,
somewhere, 5th of Teacher's Gin
halfway gone, way past the point
of tonic and lime.  Sitting on a
couch in cut off jean shorts,
too-tanned legs spread enough
to make everyone uncomfortably
aware he's sans briefs. Telling a
story too loudly, interrupted by
snorts that could be laughter or
blunted cough, peppering references
to his intellectual prowess and
life's constant unfair raining of
shit onto his shoulders.  Running
like a fucking marathon racer,
from anything that might actually
depend on him being himself.

I wonder if my hand will
lay heavy like his on the back of
some child's neck, the comfort
intended lost when it feels like
a pythons constriction.  Will
I understand the stage so well
that I can't ever leave it, will
the boards grow into my feet,
the characters inhabit every
sinew in my body, the words
I say scripted and flat.  I wonder
if I am strong enough to accept
what I do have, and to celebrate
what I do not.