The Party's Over

The Play Bill falls from my sweaty palm to the floor September 8, 2001 and I'm still alive; it's a miracle. Pushing my bifocals back up my nose, I frown. I can't remember the play at all? A cell phone rings. I stumble toward the closed doors. Bending over, I'm approached from the wing and tackled. My heel slip-rolls on a broken pencil; I'm down. What did you do you bastard, he bawls. the curtains part revealing a pool of blood: a chord is struck My arm's wrenched to my back the pain's hard to ignore. Arms back, I feel cold metal, he puts on shackles From the outside, there's a shout; a cop's siren sounds; he lifts and shoves me to the wall.