Whoever fronted the funds for my life
had better have deep pockets, because production
is a mess. We’ve had vandals on the set –
and wolves in sheep’s clothing
who’ve wrecked the scene
and devoured the confidence
of the leading lady, fading fast.

The editors have tried to salvage
the remains of the day, but even with the sunset
background it all looks fake. The cast
abandoned this show long ago
and I’m stiff as a board,
looking like a cardboard cutout
imitation of the real me.

Sure, there are a few great scenes,
but mostly those the public never got to see.
I want to march right over to the new studio
in town; instead, I’m holding the cue cards,
remembering the Bogie of my life,
muttering, “Play it again. Play it again.”
beneath my belabored breath.

I smile for the camera and all the fans
that used to be, but there’s no fooling me.
They’ve gone; I'm alone. My mind hears the call
to action, but I can no longer move my heart.
And so the director yells, “Cut!” from high
in the rafters, and I fade to interminable shades
of grey, relegated to the cutting room floor.