Baltic Ave.

I am as open  
a house  
as my home life allows  
 
right now  
 
I am in the type of heat
that makes me choose words
in a careful way
that poetry hates  
 
my hand
fat
broken from the weight
of unwanted transparency  
will hang a cowards clumsy  
throbbing through distraction
 
the characters are writing
their own lines  
and the dialogue
is spit shining the silver
on the back of the mirror
that the director denies
 
I have the set so near perfect  
that I am considering  
letting the first few rows die
when it falls on them
rather than
scrapping it
starting over
and not skimping on the bolts
that brace its backbone