Stolen scene
Steel dragonflies
and mechanical voices
in my ears
at early cock-crows
Mom’s sewing machine
like a rusted train
on new tracks
stops and goes
at feet’s command,
takes the air
No speaking lines for me
in today’s morning act
No place in this
stage of the actual
and the final.
My fingers
force words
on ghost paper
that live on currents
and sleep in plastic,
stealing scenes
left for
the gods to tell
and trust on
some other actor’s
tongue or
some other actor’s
pen
Belly mumbles
wake my head
to hunger
and tells
my soul
to leave
this stolen scene
and return it
to the unknown
and
the unseen.
