Poem of the Month | March


I fill the backstage with cobwebbed footwork,
dressed like a dead end and painted for performance –
I fill the backstage with a glare, I pop the top
of a can of coke as a leather jacket fondles me
with faded tattoos and the adhesive hands
of a Brit who swears across stadiums

everyone ignores the intercom

call back the bastard with a gold tooth,
call back the black man with a flute,
call back the peapods who sing chorus,
call back the cartoon who doesn’t belong,

who sits next to me in shadows of dust
with a packet of skittles and visine
for eyerolls – the cartoon watches
horror on his phone, the peapods
pretend they’re the star, the black man
never plays off tune, the bastard
doesn’t know the words to songs he wrote
about his version of me,

though I’m clearly tired and dissatisfied

as cartoon whispers we should leave
and take a cab to Benihana.

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