The stage is black. The curtain is closed.
Sit and wait as he might no clap of his
will cause you to step onto the stage
and sing -“Luck be a lady tonight”
In his joy, he miss judged you for a gentle son who’d
be open for coffee or talk and never leave for good
How could you after all you’ve accomplished?
Does the thick fabric of the curtain hang onto some
of your DNA where you rubbed as you rushed by
to change your costume for the romantic scene?
Are there skin cells of yours on the make-up brush
that helped your eyes pop so the person in the back
could gage the twinge of your expression?
Is there a hair of yours on the jacket
that you wore when you went outside
to rehearse your lines and get fresh air?
Did you leave your voice in the creeks
and falls of the building, rhyming in
rhythm with carpet hairs and the very foundation?
Is there some magic left that a father may find
or did it leave when you killed yourself?