Mar 2012
She rises
& looks at her clock
******
****** either that it’s too late and She will be rushing (again)
Or ****** that it’s too early
(for only those in the military need to wake up at this god awful time, right?)
She rips free from the forceful grasp of her lumpy mattress
& walks across the dusty floors of her perfect one room apartment
She doesn’t need breakfast
(perhaps a gulp of orange juice straight from the bottle)
but the view from her 7th story high window
is enough to feed her for the next 80 years
Or maybe more
The
City that
NEVER
Sleeps
Or the city that never lets her sleep at 7 am
but She forgives it
because each morning She is fed by the
honking taxis
& shouting people
& airplanes overhead
because everyone wants to visit here
but She? She lives here
The next bit of her day depends on
drive
& talent
& passion
& a little bit of luck
She could be late for work
a waitress
& campaign staffer (for the latest liberal agenda)
Or
She could be simultaneously
trying to find that sheet music (again)
picking out an outfit (unique but not revealing)
practicing that dance move (again)
& reading the scenes aloud (again)
Or (if drive & talent & passion & luck have done their job)
She’s spending a little bit more time at that window
thanking the City for the inspiration
smiling (maybe bigger than usual)
calling her family to ask when they’ll be coming out
reassuring her mom she doesn’t need any money (but taking it anyway)
(for now)
dressing for rehearsal
heart-pounding
Debut
Either way (whether drive & talent & passion & luck have done their job or not)
She covers up that small tattoo She got in her (now) younger years
pulls up that hair that has gone from brown, to red, to blonde, to brown, and through the cycle again
covers up the spots on her face
swipes on mascara
(lipstick if She’s feeling up to it)
and thanks whoever or whatever that She looks good for her age
But aside from physicality (and more important than physicality)
She thanks whoever or whatever that She has loved
& been loved
& continues to love until all that is left is the stories
& the playbills
& the people She met
& She loved each one
more than the stage
more than her apartment
more than the view
more than her bed
But perhaps not quite as much as the
drive
& talent
& passion
& luck
that got her there in the first place
& looks at her clock
******
****** either that it’s too late and She will be rushing (again)
Or ****** that it’s too early
(for only those in the military need to wake up at this god awful time, right?)
She rips free from the forceful grasp of her lumpy mattress
& walks across the dusty floors of her perfect one room apartment
She doesn’t need breakfast
(perhaps a gulp of orange juice straight from the bottle)
but the view from her 7th story high window
is enough to feed her for the next 80 years
Or maybe more
The
City that
NEVER
Sleeps
Or the city that never lets her sleep at 7 am
but She forgives it
because each morning She is fed by the
honking taxis
& shouting people
& airplanes overhead
because everyone wants to visit here
but She? She lives here
The next bit of her day depends on
drive
& talent
& passion
& a little bit of luck
She could be late for work
a waitress
& campaign staffer (for the latest liberal agenda)
Or
She could be simultaneously
trying to find that sheet music (again)
picking out an outfit (unique but not revealing)
practicing that dance move (again)
& reading the scenes aloud (again)
Or (if drive & talent & passion & luck have done their job)
She’s spending a little bit more time at that window
thanking the City for the inspiration
smiling (maybe bigger than usual)
calling her family to ask when they’ll be coming out
reassuring her mom she doesn’t need any money (but taking it anyway)
(for now)
dressing for rehearsal
heart-pounding
Debut
Either way (whether drive & talent & passion & luck have done their job or not)
She covers up that small tattoo She got in her (now) younger years
pulls up that hair that has gone from brown, to red, to blonde, to brown, and through the cycle again
covers up the spots on her face
swipes on mascara
(lipstick if She’s feeling up to it)
and thanks whoever or whatever that She looks good for her age
But aside from physicality (and more important than physicality)
She thanks whoever or whatever that She has loved
& been loved
& continues to love until all that is left is the stories
& the playbills
& the people She met
& She loved each one
more than the stage
more than her apartment
more than the view
more than her bed
But perhaps not quite as much as the
drive
& talent
& passion
& luck
that got her there in the first place
