Author. Author. Poem by michael pacholski

Kill all gods by the fourth act.
Yes, yes you must,
by all means, show the guns
and lay out the plot as well.
The public desires
blood and reason in equal measure.
So let the guns blaze and the knives twist.
Kill the hero who battles the gods
in the fourth act along with them
so the last act can be left to life and people -
the people, yes, in the final act
milling around the stage
while glancing over the program
for sons’ and daughters’ names.
People conversing near the proper red exits
or lingering beneath the antiseptic lights
flickering in the hallway entrances,
who crane their necks to catch
a glimpse of the hero
who just might come back
sooner than anyone thinks
to chat a while, informally.
People waiting and lingering
as they idly mention birthdays
and congratulate promotions as they fidget
unsure of stepping out into the cold tunnel,
exiting for good while others
sweep around the footlights, mop the stage,
clean the gods’ fake blood from the rubber knives
and remove the stage lights while waiting
for applause no one will give them
second bows that never come and the curtain
no one can be bothered to close