ALICE AT THE SITCOM LOOM
Sits, spinning at the wheel, spinning
from the blow Ralph promised, awaits
the blessed relief of transport to the moon.
Each night it is the same. After
his endless day, Charon ferrying the sweaty damned
from Ebbets Field to Flatbush or Boro Park
after the promotion to Dispatcher
that never comes, he throws the door open,
enters through the kitchen facing the airshaft
heralds his entrance with the perfunctory
TO THE MOON, ALICE, TO THE MOON,
his life closing walls without hope to change,
to break the fourth wall of the hapless sitcom,
not even to Dispatcher but to a different route
away from the ballpark, eternal hopelessness
dicated by the writers, the producer, the sponsors and
the laugh track that encase him in concrete,
brick and mortar of a Brooklyn sidestreet,
relieved only by playing the King he can never be,
his crown his driver's hat, his wished-for coronation
Norton's pipewrench bringing oblivion and salvation.
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Ken Wolman http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/
"All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."
--Francine du Plessix Gray
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