Paula Cisewski

 



Ode to My Screenplay: "PARDON MY WELTSCHMERZ"

 

Having waited

to open my

invitation,

I was not

present when

the first switch

was thrown

and the first

dawn light

bathed

the firmament. How

time snuck up.

A needle

embroidering

the various

extinctions. So

I can't wrap

my head around

all your old school

allusions. When

you ask,

"Why not forget

your maker

every time a door

swings?" Is that

literal or rhetorical?

I get hung up.

All the makers.

The salvage

and collapse.

Stop calling

me names.

Suzuki.

Chest-o-whiskey.

The past

anonymously

doing something

for us. Even

at this awkward

moment. Expunged

of doorstep. It's okay

I guess, minus

the surprises which are

so mundane and

usually sarcastic.

I mean, not like

the surprises

at the start

of the party, when

I hear folks actually

made stuff up.

Anything meant

anything. Even

all the clocks were

once imaginary clocks.

Though I shouldn't

judge because I

usually hang near

the outer ring

of the action where

I've got a clear

trajectory to

the revolving door.