The Actress’ Fan

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The Empty Street’s playhouse
Plays to the Empty Street Crowd
And on rehearsal eve, among six-to-seven others,
I sit as, among themselves, the players play.
They improvise around makeshift props. And

Before the kiss is planted if the
Curtain drops — you say — what is the
Purpose of kissing him at all? I am the fan of
The defected actress with freckles and eyes,
Who, to the dismay of my rhythm, plays here no longer.

She has gone. Crossed the road
And descended the steps with her toes
Caught in tight to the straps of her shoe.
Six-to-seven others: their silence, like emptiness,
Moderates the emptiness to carry itself through.

Comes their lines — broken transmission-like
From a far away black on white day; their lines:
The lyrics of a desperate soul crying out for company
From a mindless mass; from an uninterested
Past in me.



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