Long Day

Up at six, with crusted dreams in the corners of my eyes. Out at seven, without a coat and not at all cold, ignoring the hooded, insulated figures around me. Seated at eight, a notebook in my chilled hand, and a now lost pen behind my ear behind my hair. Scribbling at nine to keep up with the frantic and rather patriotic lecture; I have no time to "discuss with a neighbor." British at ten, in a melodrama in which I feel lost and/or insignificant, trying to make my small sidekick role stand out. Caught in a brainstorm at eleven, for a sitcom I have written, though the words are being righteously snatched away from me. Sneaking at twelve, with my math homework open and done while the substitute talks on and on. Transported at one, Shakespeare in my heart and mind like a dream or aspiration; oh, that I would be like the bard in all amazed glory! Hurrying at two, to get to chorus, spill the beans, make the day. Waiting at three for a rehearsal in which I will walk and wait some more. Leaning at four from two bars, posts, backstage while I am supposed to be following along - someone has stolen my pen. Rushing at five to board the train and go to the next rehearsal, the next stage line, the next chance to experiment. Exhausted at six, having just arrived and being awfully relieved at my prompt arrival, warmy and coze. Glamorous at seven, being filmed by some journalist for a feature during the few seconds I grasped of a scene. Fluttery at eight: to the car, to the car, to home. And now, nine, I write, anxious for the long night to come.