The Spike Poem Anthology II

by Zephyr Spark

The Director

What they have said is true. I was in his office. His favorite carried his special pen. His favorite two worked on their duet, his son went to middle school. Behind him there were play posters, dancing shoes, a trophy. Through the window students rehearsed. It was a musical. Crumpled letters were littering the floor to remind us that there are plenty of rain forests. Through the window blinds there was a black room and black curtains like a morgue. He had plans for plays, dances, musicals, leads, and a silver whistle on his table for calling the students. The students brought their passion, their voices, their bodies. There was a brief command to sing. His assistants scolded a student. There was some talk about giving other students a chance at the lead. The ensemble laughed in the black box. He told them to shut up, and marched to the theater. My heart said with sadness: you’re nothing. The director returned with a backpack used to carry homework. He poured many lips onto the tables. They were like shriveled pink daisies. There is only one way to say this. He grabbed his trophy, smashed it on the table, poured out more lips. They trembled with life. Don’t think you matter he said. As for the rest, I will take everything they have. And they will gladly give it. They’re tools. Some just have more value than others. He pushed the rest into the trashcan and held his trophy into the air. Marvelous, isn’t it? Few lips pressed to the floor could sing anymore. Few lips had dreams left to whisper.

Author's Note:

This is a poem imitation of Carolyn Forché's poem "The Colonel." I wrote this piece for a class and wanted to put it here. I did not intend for this poem to degrade any theatre people.