An ever-present sun
confuses the passing of days, years,
so:
it’s not your fault
you still think it’s 1953. We drugged you.
Your stint at that milk farm
was only a couple of years, but it was just enough time
to nudge Chinatown a touch to the north,
adjust a few inconvenient trees,
and forge a few more churro stands (for the kids).
The tea rooms you frequented
have failed, and behind your back,
people say you’ve gotten soft in the middle—
a pillow. Being kind to yourself
is hard work. But the limelight was so forgiving then,
so even when we did peek behind your plush curtains,
we hardly noticed the crooked wigs
on all your weathered marionettes.
No one will blame you. Here,
we love a fake. Just get some work done,
and remember that away from us,
we love you more.
Angel’s Flight
Published
The Failures of a Non-Performer 