by June Labyzon
The idle moments
lapse into stillness
rendering me the perfect
Blanche Dubois, sitting in my
glamour girl robe,
for the "kindness of strangers"
to bring an orderly rhythm to my life.
I swallow copious quantities of
the polished soundtrack
swirling notes that flutter deep within me
as you struggle to hear without
In a most courageous effort,
my hand reaches out to you.
not really a stranger.
Your eyes are the cameras that could save me
I perform the shallow parts projected
on blue screens,
Are you zoomed in?
This could be the role of a lifetime.
Yet, sooner or later, it is inevitable
that I will end on the cutting room floor.
Author's Note: Revised and Reposted
Posted on 11/20/2012
Copyright © 2021 June Labyzon
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 07/14/13 at 08:38 AM|
I know the feeling of winding up on the cutting room floor, which shouldn't be mistaken for a poor performance, rather that it was too great a performance to meld with the rest of the film which was intended only to sate a mediocre market.
|Posted by Leonard M Hawkes on 10/21/14 at 05:37 AM|
How often have I recognized you, Blanche Dubois--nice piece.