At rehearsal A we said our benedictions.
The posthorn always rang at Nummer Zwei.
The winds unveiled in progressions of halting thirds
the quarters in which we slept when summer was nigh.
The recap was but a twice-told fiction
and the hero’s delay, redoubled now, seemed queer,
strung out along the abyss on an unmarked strand.
But the people loved us with right this year!
The strings played flawlessly, and you and I were grand.
For how could we have known how the plot was devised?
You confront me now in a furnished room
with a series of questions pertaining to “whom”
and a trill of concentric turns and dotted i’s.
A pale guard is lurking in the canyon.
If we must linger, let’s linger with abandon.
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