First there was Jim, clamping to my long black hair
that nine-pound Cleopatra wig
with nylon bands and bobbie pins.
Meanwhile I was on fire for Chad, who coached me
a bit impatiently Tuesday nights
on my Joan-of-Arc inflection.
Then Terence said I’d be perfect for the lounge-singer-
turned-whore, and as it turned out
that was a fairly easy gig.
Max signed me on soon after, claiming I was a natural
for Eternally Aggrieved Girl,
which in hindsight hurts me deeply.
So by the time you followed me back to the green room
to wait in the hallway—whistling!—
for my scrubbed face to emerge,
naturally I was wary, waiting for the script
you never bothered to come up with.
It was damned awkward sitting there,
nothing but milkshakes between us. Maybe, I thought,
you’d assumed I was the one with a script.
Finally I decided to give Terence a call.
I didn’t like the way you looked at me so steadily
with your chin resting on one fist,
as if the table were a table, the boards
A floor. Listening there as if you meant it,
as if something I could say were true, and every
moment from now on would be my cue.