It’s five to midnight, and she’s been drinking.
Her play audition did not go well.
I offered rescue; she went for sinking,
And now she’s ready to raise a hell.
She resurrects from the undercover
And fires, having her talent staked:
“You’re such a tragedy as a lover,
All that you’ve taken for real, I faked!”
Her face portrays quintessential fury,
Her eyes resemble a gaping void…
How dares any theatric jury
Keep such a natural unemployed?
With every second her lips get tigher,
And so do lines of her bitter role:
“You’re such a travesty as a writer,
All that you think you made up, you stole!”
I smile, remembering our adventure;
She takes it wrong and begins to craze.
At last. It’s time for a real danger:
Across the living room flies a vase.
I dodge it, thanks to a stretch of sinews;
The shards do get me below the sleeve.
I’d pull the curtain, but she continues:
“You’re mere nothing, so if I leave
You’ll perish sooner than I will know it.
And let that not be a bad surpise:
You’re such a misery as a poet,
All that you wrote is a chain of lies!”
The stroke of midnight is filled with rancor.
She’s sobbing, desperate and aloof.
The chain has tethered her to an anchor:
I have to sever it with a truth.
She acts no longer: an evil goddess
Has fallen down from her rage’s crest.
I hug her warmly and say with fondness:
“I love you, darling, and love you best.”