somebody fax me
to Broadway.
fit me between
the slots straight.
nice and snug.
as the machine tugs
on the right spot.
dial 1 2.1.2. bla bla bla.
go on. just do it. someone.
astutely hit send!

beep. beep.
the loud, high-pitch
melody rings.
like my heart
bleeding.
followed by
the crunchy sound.
digital transmission.
high speed.
through the wire.
the violin strings.
pushing me.
again.

pop. sigh.
like a falling feather.
flying by. side to
side. so graceful.
i’m the paper, mostly,
floating.
partially,
falling. longitude.
latitude.
in a drifters mood.
landing smooth.
not in the tray.
but on stage.
the curtain is removed.

all is exposed.
all that i know.
now what? i’m here. but
i’m a fax,
not an actor. remember?
i’m white and flat.
imperfect
replication of dust
and ink spats.
good information.
i transfer frustration.
mostly confusion.
i’m the answer
to someone. often
no good to myself.

take me for what i am.
not always bright, vibrant
and beautiful.
i rip easy. i get framed.
don’t throw me
away.
use the recycle receptacle.
im not always
suitable. and
i reflect light.
im not always
right. and lately
i can barely stand
in the stillness of the night.
stop relying on me.
to entertain the stage.
because im
merely a man.
graying and
coming of age.

it’s good
that Broadway doesn’t last
forever.
one thing off my eternity
list. the treasure
i’ll miss.
but i still find myself
measuring. my worth.
every thing. comparing. coveting.
overworked. i’m tired.
exhausted. this life
means nothing.
without love. because.
words aren’t valid
without actions.
so i’m acting.
just because.
now send me back.
to the factory.

routine.