Stage Left

working in the wings

Stage Left

Robbie Furtwangler

 

I mouth the words

she always gets wrong.

I shake my head

as he misses another cue.

I purse my lips when he

upstages my friend.

 

The velvet curtains pour down.

I rush on stage,

lift a chair in each hand,

return with a table,

grab a couch end,

put out three tumblers,

a brown shatter-glass bottle,

place the cap gun

underneath the blanket.

 

The curtains shoot up

and the lights make me squint

as the actors awaken and

begin to make mistakes.

 

I tuck in my black shirt,

push up my glasses,

nod to the stage manager. 

Who would be

in the wings

if I didn’t have a lisp?