My disabled mother disappeared by The Hudson River inside a
playhouse off Broadway.
Grief was kept from clouding childlike faith I would find
her soon. Still felt guilt to have allowed her to go by herself to a ladies
room. Why did I allow myself be hypnotized
by an audience and a movie screen, both props for stage actors?
I noticed tourists had notebooks. A middle-aged white-haired woman had a cold
stare when she saw me read her handwriting that went beyond borders of the
page.
The fourth wall broke. I looked up and saw sky over West 38th
street in Manhattan.
The small theater was out in the open air surrounded by
cars, citizens and cameras.
Suddenly, a second-story subway train pulled up to a bus
stop. It had no windows except for one to provide a view for pilots to travel
cross-country and oceans.
A bedroom door opened and I sighed see my mother in the city
that never sleeps.
All the city of the naked world is a stage where life movies
on.
I dreamt writing this in my notebook.
See book. Read film.
Run, story, run…
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