The Playwright Procrastinates

Do you slide your hand along her thigh?
Do you move your mouth towards hers?
Do you know it will be right this time,
    The truth between two bodies?
Or do you invent it,
Plan it out like a bank raid,
                  inside your head?

Is your play a masterpiece, its characters
Flesh and blood?
The only blood is pouring down your thighs,
And out the tip of the pen,
But it's old blood,
Soiled blood,
Hardly blood at all.

Do you make it up as you go along -
    Pen to paper,
        Mouth to mouth,
            Page to page,
                Dust to dust?

Too full of caffeine and bullshit.
Do you put your hands across your face?
Do you wipe the spit from your mouth?
Will it come right this time?
The truth of a blank page.


April 17, 1996
© Lela Kaunitz