Tonight's Poet Corner: The Dead Playwright
The Dead Playwright
by Belinda Roddie
His characters had learned nothing. The women
were all left drinking. The ice grew colder
by the end of the act, not warmer, far against
the physics of passion, the kind that he had
never grown accustomed to practicing.
And somehow, when the ribbon on the typewriter
broke, and the second half was never completed,
there was something more dramatic in the way
he settled in the corner of his room, the rum
hotter than his own frustrations, his heart giving out
loudly to the sound of outside traffic, where a comedy
roared in the rundown tavern, and a soliloquy
was hummed beneath the fire escape by a girl
wearing gloves to cover the scars on her fingers.
by Belinda Roddie
His characters had learned nothing. The women
were all left drinking. The ice grew colder
by the end of the act, not warmer, far against
the physics of passion, the kind that he had
never grown accustomed to practicing.
And somehow, when the ribbon on the typewriter
broke, and the second half was never completed,
there was something more dramatic in the way
he settled in the corner of his room, the rum
hotter than his own frustrations, his heart giving out
loudly to the sound of outside traffic, where a comedy
roared in the rundown tavern, and a soliloquy
was hummed beneath the fire escape by a girl
wearing gloves to cover the scars on her fingers.
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