Casablanca Poem by christo andrus

CASABLANCA

a cracked and yellowing copy of Casablanca
runs, sometimes, in a little theater
just behind my heart (around the corner
from the moment we met): Rick sits
embedded in quicksand, elbows holding
the table down, pouring endless whiskey in
to douse the smoldering pile of memories'
ashes on the floor of his stomach.

piano keys are tinkling, constantly
just out of earshot; Sam, slumped
over the keyboard, elbows-to-keys,
palm-to-cheek, unshackled, supporting
the weight of Rick's slack jaw
and faraway stare, for
(never really) obvious, yet quite
inescapable, reasons

the palest light radiates
from her face; her fairytale faith
in impossibly happy endings is cut
into the lines of her suit; romance (surviving
in the face of life's beatings and war's
grand follies) paints her lips; belief
in the magic
of a song, is an apology
in her eyes

poor Sam (stretched tight between two
poles, he caresses their memories, fingers
the keys, takes his silver,
and never wavers, he)
picks out the piece he was born to play,
the sword only Rick can pull
from the stone of broken hearts; and slowly turns,
eyes woken with disbelief
and joy....as time's stage
door creaks
open, and the curtain goes up

a cracked and yellowing copy of
love's tragedy chatters in my ear, occasionally
demanding that i prove i'll still
take the risks, knowing the finale
is not a fairytale, but a foggy play
about passion and pain
and silent, wet departures.






© Copyright 2010 christo (UN: christo13 at Writing.Com) . All rights reserved.