I watch my handiwork
on a flickering screen,
wondering
if this life
will cause a thrill
at Cannes
among the cool auteurs
in tans and sunglasses
or
be cruelly panned
by the unmoved multitude
This life slithers by, reel to real
punctuated
by jumpy cuts
and anguished close-ups
The Wednesday morning table
rolls past the projector’s eye
blues song words that dance
grace the soundtrack
of the hour
The invisible audience
in some distant theater
applauds and cheers, yet still,
I stifle an urge
to leave this year
on my cutting room floor.
Slowly,
with unsteady hands
I unravel the celluloid skeins
of this life
they tangle my helpless limbs
like spider webs
and I feel like
a struggling six-limbed meal
but calm prevails
as I watch
the grit, the grain on the screen
as the shadowy figure
played by me
hurtles toward the dreaded words
“The End.”