Prologue
Hurry, don’t be late
I can’t hardly wait
I said to myself when we’re old
We’ll go dancing in the dark, walking through the park
And reminiscing — Graeham George Goble
Act I
Imagine us together
sitting at Starbuck’s drinking coffee
after 40 or so years
reminiscing.
Our yes-yes recollection of events in that long-ago past.
Then, too, catching up on all that’s happened in the intervening years
Can you imagine that?
(signs aloha, Chris. Hits send.
Looks at undo button, hesitates, but doesn’t)
Act II
I can imagine that.
I think it would be fun, frankly,
but I have some distinct feeling that you wouldn’t enjoy it at all
Nostalgia doesn’t fit you,
I believe.
It’s almost as if you don’t have a past,
that you wipe each day away clean
like a window washed,
making it crystal clear.
That you see ahead,
never looking over your shoulder,
your background story a blank page,
your book’s never written,
your life lived
but never lived at all
except in the future sense.
Act III
Via email you tell me what I pretty much expected,
I guess.
You can’t meet me for coffee, and that’s it:
Chris, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time.
(End of transmission)
Epilogue:
You are still the master author of the future
mistress of gentleness,
our play a kind of closure without end
Review:
It’s not very good. No it’s not very good at all.
No one either laughed or cried.
No, it wasn’t a great play,
the decisive kind,
where I nailed my entrance and exit.
And the in-between lacked any meat.
The parts where I speak and gesture,
dumb,
I have to say.
It’s bad when the open, the wake, on one end,
and the close, the sleep, on the other,
are the best part of a piece:
That living part,
the conscious part,
which in this play
amounted to
nothing.
You see, Mary, I am still my best critic.
Note: Mary, write your line
Chris, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time
with a little more feeling.
Prompt: Unknown