Rehearsal Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Rehearsal



The theatre is empty, dark. 
The stage is bare. 
My heart is all I hear. 
My temples ache.
I'm caught within 
a piercing spot light's glare,
that follows every step and turn I take.
I'm tired, pissed. 
What contract did I sign?
Where's my director?  
Feet up in some seat?
Why am I here?  
Who said this script is mine?
I long to stop,  
yet once more repeat:
'See HOW you ARE? ' 
I scream, 'Just go way! '
I whine 'Why me? Poor me! ' 
and then I start:
'It's fine. It's fine. 
It really is okay.'
I even hear me 
speak the other's part. 
A nightmare gives you 
gifts that you can take,
but fret-filled day-mares 
never take a break. 

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