All praise to you, Sacred Scriptwriter,
who pens psychological thrillers
with the ink of flesh:
Enduring
amateur editorial feedback
from fictional characters who talk back,
suggesting slight improvements
to the way
you punctuate each kiss
and foreshadow
our approaching heartbreak.
And what about
that deathbed chapter?
Aren’t you being a bit obtuse,
refusing to even hint
at the moral,
the gist,
the plot?
Don’t get me wrong, Scriptwriter:
It’s a damn good read.
A real hoot
to catch you even now
imagining us
sending thanks to you.
But playtime’s over.
Time to make peace
with that embarrassing typo
we call our body,
the imperfect grammar
of conditional love
and the unspectacular penmanship
of day-to-day events unfurling.
Needing nothing more miraculous
than you, Scriptwriter,
whispering,
“put your foot there.”
