The Final Act

The summer is deadly
The woodsmoke a traitor
The heat on my back
Will surely burn me alive
To be conjured back
To that time of longing and hate
It’s a betrayal
With only me on stage
In a theatre 
I continue to Prop up
And the sound effects
Are the birdsong I woke to
The morning after
And the lighting
Is the shard of sun
Laying across my soaking torso
And the props
Are the upturned pictures
Lying on the bedroom floor
The extras all looking on
In quiet acceptance
And me the director
Laughing at the inadequacy
Of the script you wrote
Pretending it was improvised
With us both knowing
You’d planned those lines
And that final act
For decades

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