My boss says, “could this be the next ‘King’s Speech’?”
And slides a script across the desk to me.
It stops a hand’s breadth just beyond my reach.
The fact that it is huge is all I see –
And drier than a Gobi desert rock.
He points and says, “This opening line is good.”
Then stands, puts on his coat, looks at the clock.
“I need this read by teatime. If you would.”
He goes to lunch. The script sits in a slab
Of paper I can’t lift, much less digest
Before 5.30, when I’ll take a cab
To meet my new romantic interest.
I quickly write, “Dull plot. Don’t do this play”.
Ars longa, vita brevis.
As they say.