Mourning a Work of Play

The door closes

and latches in a cough behind you. 

The gentle breeze 

draws a breath 

from your lungs. 

You walk a little slower down the walk

because the sun is bright,

the clouds slowly waltz,

and the moment is gone; 

You are mourning a work of play. 

The piss scent of the garage isn't noticed. 

Your skin tingles gently as a nap. 

The key turns without effort. 

You save your last receipt

and sift onto the one way street. 

A smile finds the sunlit stop light. 

Each lane is carefully chosen

as the clock shifts forward. 

You drive a little slower

because you're not quite ready 

to go back.

Tears threaten 

but can't make up their minds. 

Your chest feels permanent sigh. 

Eyes alert but thoughts askew. 

A long time coming was a short time went.

The clock keeps easing on.

The drift feels cool and easy. 

What was has ceased 

and what will keeps its distance. 

But right now, 

the memory sings you home.









Dedicated to everyone who worked on "A Wrinkle Time" at Theatrical Outfit.