Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

On Stage

At the ninth hour,
you dreaded the thought of entry,
reluctant, empty-handed,
and with no clue,
if only to derive applause
from the choreography
of flesh and bones.

After nine months,
you stepped on stage
without rehearsal,
steeped in hope for a gust of will
to enact Ophelia,
engaging yourself to break free
from the written script.

After nine years,
or was it ninety-nine,
the chain with the nine jewels
bruised your neck.
Injured, you whispered aside
in the bosom of performances
and caught a long-traveling ray
all the way to the exit door.


Prompt: Significance of number nine