Fall

My laurel crown sits askew and wilts.
In fact, brittle leaves fall with a slightest move.
From upstage
I sense the sudden gentle waft of incense and guilt.
My feet find a mark and secure it to prove
I can still be all the rage.

I’m not as sorry as I thought I would be
years on now from the unraveling scene
when clouds tumbled,
the earth split and devotees crawled to see
if kingly tears fell like theirs. Against shoulders I would lean
awaiting the fumble

that never seemed to be the me I earnestly practiced.
Lately, I touch my beard more than is right.
My eyes don’t fix
on any particular page or line. No eager actress
will spar or run through an awkward kiss or fight.
I’m bankrupt of tricks.