The clock
striketh
If exiting the
theatre
you feel the
same
as when you went
in,
demand a refund
at the box
office,
find your way
backstage
to where the
actors are
drinking and
taking off
costumes and
makeup,
stand in the
doorway,
like an
accusatory ghost,
hold on to the
ticket stub,
and, when Death
comes,
show it and
explain
the account is
unbalanced,
you’re still
owed
for those hours,
because that’s the
deal.
You give part of
your life
to be changed somehow.
But don’t try to
lie,
because Death’s
there
at every
performance,
in the back row,
watching,
fascinated.
[She picks up
some pieces]
Each day she was
free
to get anything
she wanted
to eat or drink.
Nothing was denied
her
at the table,
and sometimes
she amused herself
with requests
like:
Small half goat-milk no foam latte
and half snake-milk cocoa-less mocha
in
a pre-warmed silk venti cup.
But she knew it
was an illusion
of
choice of control.
No matter how
large,
the castle
was still a box
and she
a prize within.
Each day someone
asked
what she wanted
and what she wanted
was a sunburst
telecaster
with humbucker pickups
what she wanted
was
opponents
who would play hard
what she wanted
was
a solo one way
ticket,
a storyline that
didn’t end
in marriage
or suicide,
the keys to the
cars
and doors
and these could
be hers
but what she
wanted
was
to not be asked
and not be given.
Enter Gardeners
When Anne
finally saw some of her husband’s plays,
she recognized
phrases from discussions they’d had
and exchanges
she’d recounted with the fishmonger,
dyer,
glovemaker, gardener . . . .
She didn’t mind,
but it was odd
to realize all the times she thought
he wasn’t
listening that he always had been listening,
collecting bits
of conversation like change
in a desktop jar
then spending it later, in London.
She wondered now
that he had moved back to Stratford
and stopped
writing, how he felt about the words
around him. Was he still storing them somewhere?
Or, having
become a rich gentleman in a New Place,
did he consider
them mere farthings and halfpennies,
currency too
small to pay much mind to any more.
Joseph Mills teaches at the University of North Carolina
School of the Arts. He has published five collections of poetry, most recently This Miraculous Turning.
