Quarter to Zero Hour

For SP and RH

(6:45 pm)

She swills her red dress like wine,
baiting the bull inside. A pantomime,

spectator sport, let the audience come
and laugh like wolves to a frenzied drum.

No park bench - a music hall!
Where the rabble point and brawl.

You gorge yourselves on drama - I’ll starve you.
No more your jester. No, the fool

has discarded her bells, her burning stripes.
I stand here now, unpatterned, my final night

of performance, humbly I step forward.
Light bursts from doors; I’m deafened by the blinding roar

of the crowd and the hooves of my heart beat …
and they all throw roses at my feet.