Torn Shirt

Sara struts onto the stage,
fakes it in her sexy red dress,
hair flouncing, fingers restless.
Her run in the play has ended.
She'd like to go back 
to the beginning and start over, but
the audience wants brighter eyes now.

The male lead still makes her shiver;
his hands turned the room purple..
Her replacement has already 
caught his eye, though,
and Sara's dance card sighs.
She lifts her chin, bows,
blows kisses into the darkness,
waves her last farewell.
She'll go out like Garbo
or Hepburn. Not like Blanche,
crying over some man's torn shirt.





Pris Campbell
©2009







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