Between The Lines.
She’d forgotten her lines so she stared
blankly at a host of camera lenses.
I’d written a few lines for her part so
I filled in the blanks and
she was quickly back on track.
Stuck on a smart dog and bone,
I watched the others sniff lines
between a rock and a hard take.
I’d seen her draw a line for artists
and architects and overheard when
she told them not to cross the line,
but such types never listen; forever
stuck in the hue of a blueprint.
Heading south along the northern line,
I dreamed of hearing her voice at
the other end of a landline, but
remembering what she’d told the others,
I thought it wise to toe the line and wait
until she pinged or popped online.
Energy flows where creatives go,
and I know not much but this I do know:
suns will shine with full moons aglow
and paths will cross after noon,
somewhere new, down the line.
