-An Ode to Dorothy Parker
Standing at the edge; a blur of blue,
leaning over
adjusting her hair;
she is squinting at the setting sun.
One awkward hand on the railing
and a knee slightly bent
betray her purpose here.
You and me, oh Dorothy,
have been here a little too long;
you flick some ash, I look at my watch
and the camera just pans over us.
She is speaking words-
pre-rehearsed and incoherent,
alienating you and me further away.
A script lies open on the tabletop
-off focus; and a pair of eyes
contradict a moving mouth.
I want to tell you Dorothy,
that the tree behind you has new green leaves,
and then perhaps begin to speak.
But your eyes are fixed elsewhere,
on this ensemble of everyday unreality
reflecting your exasperation.
I look at my watch, you flick some ash,
and the camera just pans over us.
You make to leave- then hesitate-
and your eyes linger on me.
A stray thought erupts, teeters on speech,
but its only a moment of unbecoming,
swallowed in the crunch of a cigarette stub.
You and me, oh Dorothy,
were here far too long;
though I did want to tell you something,
before the onset of our cinematic erasure.
