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Poem

The Actors assemble on the stage 
Where they’d been for years and for days,
And read their lines and read their lives
From the fragmented script of an unwritten play:

Says The Callow Young Man to the Ingenue, “My dear, 
I’m frightfully sorry but would you care for more stew?”
While His Lordship harrumphs, “Where the devil's my beer?”
And The Maiden Aunt sighs, “That will never do,”
And The Countess says, “I prefer to not be specific.”

The Wealthy Young Widow announces to all,
“I’m so dreadfully bored, I’m off to see Venice,”
As The Lawyer makes a mysterious call,
And The Unwelcome Guest asks, “Anyone for tennis?”
And The Butler and The Cook do something illicit.

As The Boyfriend declares his undying love,
The Dowager says, “I do not talk of my youth,”
And The Girlfriend laments, “I can’t find my glove!”
And “It’s quite elementary," says The World-Famous Sleuth,
“The murder was committed by a one-legged midget.”

And so it goes, so it goes;
Glimpses of a plot flicker  
In a non sequitur flow.

The Actors then pause, 
And then they come to a stop;
They seem to stop for applause
But they’re just out of lines.
So they stop where they are and just wait;
Wait for The Writer to show up and create.

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