Chump Change
Were you even supposed to return here?
It feels like you should be noticeably
different, even if just slightly, improved—
a worm seeking escape from a hooked fate,
its visible squirm an apology for not bringing
back a catch.
Have you transformed at all? Maybe
you did better than when you left
me behind to find the thrill of Division
Street. Hushed make outs inside a cigarette-
scarred red Jeep—chasing after memories
not meant for you to keep before you
drove them out of your (other) life.
Are you as red-faced as handed having
been caught at plagiarizing? Scribbling
your frayed name in place of the main
character, calling it your story. As if
weaving deceitful serendipity held sincerity,
reshaping the stage and the plot to suit
your shamefully common aims.
It was bald, not bold. She saw through
your attempt to insert yourself into
the script, lacking the talent to write
it for her, yourself.
Did you think you discovered Dickens'
unparented beside an above-ground pool?
Her monitoring anklet trapping a tan
line above the foot. She was no proper
urchin, and you no Brownlow the Benefactor,
just playing a part while robbing the bowl
with a pilfered paper spoon.
Did your fantasies fail you miserably? You
had to have believed it to pull off a Brownlow,
gone method, as all good liars know, at least
that much; to touch the sunlit core of another
with your storytelling, you have to commit
to the bit. Portraying an orphan is as tough
as selling threadbare 19th century costumes
these days.
Did my bargaining for your borrowed, broken
spoon catch you off guard? I slipped into
my walk-on role as smoothly as a finger
on a Chekov trigger; we knew I wouldn't pull
punches in the third act.
Did your pressed khaki slacks gain space
when she laughed in your tired, wrinkle-worn,
thousandaire face? It would have deflated
my ego back into my genes as well, which
is why I learned my lines with composure—
cold.
My heart beats backward as the clock
ticks towards an impending intermission,
a necessary pause in your exposition. Its
droning, like bees wings beating off
your tongue, a consequence of miscasting
a counterfeit urchin as your queen.
Is the honey you reaped enough to sustain
you now that she's cast you aside? I ask
because a snack of saved syrup might soothe
the medicine of eating those stolen, bitter
words now.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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