It's the weekend matinee

So she slips the silver off her finger and reserves an entire aisle to herself

People complain in different languages

I can see their thorns
But we can’t arrest a paying customer

I bill thirty eight seats to

‘L. Skyscraper’

I wonder what the L stands for
She picks a suit to escort her

There is always a new suit
And beside her they look like sheepish insects clinging to a dashboard

I admire their tender display of desperation

At least it’s honest

After the second movement just before the harps solo

She requests a single cup of scorching hot water

And I move heaven and earth

to take it to her

W a t e r boy!

That’s my name

for the night

And her wish

is my command

But I’m not alone

Everyone finds themselves

compromised when she arrives

You wanna know her signature seal of approval?

A slight spasm of the right eye

To be honest

I’ve never seen it myself but

last Autumn when Iverh, our house conductor

turned around to greet a standing ovation for an interpolation of Gorecki’s Symphony no.2

There she was

Under a tiger lily hue

With hands high in praise

And an eye twitching to the clutter of a clapping crowd

Iverh fainted a few moments later

Falling on the first violins, violin

and snapping it’s cherry wooden neck

He woke with an inaudible embarrassment

but no one

not even the first violin caused a scene

We all just impatiently waited for words to roll of his tongue hoping he could spare any small detail about what the other side was like

when he woke

He called it

Le petit mort

I make my way to the staff kitchen,

dab my key fob at the temperamental tech

and fill the kettle to the top

I am her waterboy

I got a job to do

I swing open the mouldy cupboard where I keep the mug she likes

the only mug she’ll drink from

But peeling paint stares back at me

The corner is naked

And theres no room for cordiality


Where the fucks the mug?!

In the key of my beating heart I play the kitchens chords

Plucking lonely tupperware and secret santa relics from their shelves

Discordant notes thrashing around in my big mouth

I sound like reality tv

But no one is making any money

The producers certainly don’t trust me

And I can just about keep the viewers entertained

I pour the hot water on the floor and thaw my daydreaming

Am I…free?

Or am I just a kid on minimum wage

The solo is almost over

The solo isn’t coming back

Source: Firefly Atelier Design