B & W
Standing there in the cold,
Way too old for this role playing bit.
I’d rather do a real-life skit.
I take out my puppets,
Gloves in the compartment –
My jacket pockets.
Play out a scene
From the master of modern tragedy.
Social emotions flying back and forth,
Saliva would have been my crack.
They enjoy my performance
And laugh,
And roll around in their graves.
They await my next move,
Knowing what’s going to happen.
Some serious dialogue
With anecdotes about flying coats,
Dying hats,
And subliminal communism.
This is a theatre jism of the highest worth,
But my stage leaves me cursed.
A cemetery filled with pompousness
And millions worth of gold.
In front of me
Two rectangles and boulders.
Two graves of much older souls.
Not nastily fancy like the temple across,
Tomb of a wealthy man,
Now and then casting a shadow over them.
They who knew all along.
You is who I’m referring to,
And the place where you so humbly rest,
Mrs. Weigel & Mr. Brecht.
Please allow my respects.
Diary of a Poet 