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Gaffers Last Gig

standing on a tent platform 30ft in the air at minus 27 celsius at midnight and thinking that I've had enough,

all these years and all the shows and what was I doing here other than suffering a wage?

I was cold and bored and I didn't care about production values,
or if the show went to air,
or if anyone even knew who I was. 

I thought of a technician I'd known who years earlier had died of a massive heart attack only steps away from where I was working now,

I don't want to die like that, I thought, carrying cable on my shoulder,
or even just standing here in the back of this tent like a weirdo on a street corner waiting for this stupid show to end,

please, don't let this happen to me,

let this be the last of a former life.

you came into my mind then,

what you'd said not so long ago,

bare as stripped wire,

black as a short circuit,

something that once was electric,

now just melted junk lying on a bench.

all these dead endings,

all these places where we are diminished,

resigned to a collapse of expectations,

the disappointment of the self,

you said I had expected too much of you,

in the end you made that point succinctly,

you were right and I was wrong,

you were someone else.

I think, now,

I am too.

12 Feb 18

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(2 more poems by this author)

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