unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands

arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise

flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged

failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work

the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands  perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,

signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out