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?
Annieepoetry 