Reverberations from the language of Opera
in the office box, where I sell tickets to the cultured –
amongst murmurs of ‘wouldn’t it be fun to do her job,
just for one night, to pretend, to be part of the working class,
because we don’t have to’
In my human limitation I do my best to forgive the superior
attitudes that have no sympathy for a charity case, like me.
I imagining myself glamorous, singing in each act, except
for the last because I died, betrayed by a broken heart.
I head to the room I rent for eighty five euro a week,
stopping for a Kebab the Naan bread is cold
by the time I get to someone else’s home. Emotionally spent
from the drama of my imagined opera – I have a date
with late night radio – parental rights discussion on FM 103,
I wonder about the lives of these people with such strong views,
why do I never see them on television – mine broke a week ago.
Maybe they only have opinions late at night, on radio, when we are
on the brink of losing another hour.