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

I stick with what I know
Refusing to grow
Until I’m losing the show
With nowhere to go
I become part of the flow
Of an abandoned road

Staying in my lane
Playing video games
I’m becoming lame
With thoughts so tame
Ignoring doubtful shame
And bouts with pain
To preserve my brain
From harsh stains
So when I’m social
I am only hopeful
They don’t see I have no soul

To reach the top of that hill
I need to develop the will
To acquire a new skill
That’ll leave me fulfilled
And not on pills
But on playbills
That pay bills
Where the bay spills

But learning language
Brings me anguish
The stench of my French
Puts me on the bench
And I’m speaking German
Like I’m inside a Sherman
So I give up sounding like Napoleon
And go try out the accordion

But my focus on instrumentation
Only causes further insulation
When it doesn’t give placation
Requiring practice and inspiration
Yet I can’t tell the difference between a piano and a dynamo
But I guess I wasn’t really trying though
What I’m doing is more like dying slow
Parked in the snow
With nowhere to go

I have no patience
Nor discipline
I crave safeness
And indifference
For living with ease
Is my domestic disease
Drowning on my knees
Until I’m not interesting
In this interest sea
Where I float free
But don’t see

I say it’s all been done before
So why should I do any more?
Those before me got to score
And then closed the door
To the convenience store
They created a mangled mold
Out of their stranglehold
On the angles sold
But my blame grows old
As my claims are told
And my peers are polled
Concluding I’m not bold
After becoming cold

After a head start
I wait for a spark
Alone in the dark
With no real heart
Expecting my part
To fall in my lap
And people to clap
While I can’t do a thing
I can’t dance or sing
My hands I wring
Scheming ways to be king
Without pulling the strings
And never committing
It’ll be here I’m sitting

the sound of one

hand clapping, keen

enough to know which.

two minus one, minus one.

surreal as the silence of

Fellini's film: 8 1/2.

the opening scene of

that commuter pile up

tunneling vision, one of the

collective body ****** out.

flying over cars, then bound

by a rope at the ankles, freefalling

on to a beach.

descending upon

windthumbed playbills on Broadway.