I was in the wooden secret
high and stage right service tunnel.
You beneath in white.
Welcome to the Big Apple Dinner Theater.
Previously, there with family,
A halting procession of forced inflection.
You two should try out
she said again.
Ignoring the signs as mothers do,
thinking instead of what is best.
It was then that I saw you.
Later, the tryouts.
Anxious harried persons erect like ranseurs,
Hustled by the personnel in fours and fives.
Yes and next and are you ready? No?
Instead I begged to come and simply watch again.
And so the next night set up in the curtain booth.
There were cues which I surely missed.
Left rope right rope follow the script,
surrounded in graffiti and counting lines till you
appeared.
She elbowed you and pointed to my perch together giggling.
There was a vast contestation of parts
the following Sunday afternoon. But
no svelte arms no almond eyeballs -
maybe it's a sign.
I never went back who knows what happened.
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