Robe Project — 49 (Unstaged)

It is fallen, I want to be the one in the orange lollipop suit

Cradled by the stick holding me upright

Sweet, translucent, with a moldy citrus scent.

The part I wish to play is the one that will be discarded, left on the editor’s half full wastebasket.

Forlorn at the games, that never chosen or always chosen so there is someone to blame.

The suit smells of must and coffee or tabac, the closet of a clown found beyond…

you know this, the rails the tracks.

The syringes litter the gravel by the sides of the iron, each one a tale of despair and delight.

It doesn’t matter what I want, not the one to decide.

The Stars, in pink and blue, stand behind at each side.

I look on from stage right, Pretend to wait for the cue that never comes.

The door does not open there is no entrance for me. My role was chosen by someone else.

The color has soaked into my skin and they laugh and tease a bottled tan, whisperings heard from the stage.

The mistress pulls me back and in the darkened room, seated new boots and a coat, a shirt to keep me warm, ejected into the alley, the door quietly snicks close.

I am not to return and of course it begins to rain.

The rain removes the color and now a duck I waddle out to the sidewalk.

There is no home I can face, no taxi fare to pocket, and strangers do not look friendly.

I leave the city on foot or not, this is not the place for that tale.

Where I go and now where I am is better though you’ll not know it.

Thank you for the shoes and cloak, they stood the test better than I and I remember more hope then.

I couldn’t match your eyes.

A model now for some who will learn not to follow, But she’s carrying this letter

I hope you’ll find her better

• - — — — — than I could be for you.