it’s good paper, I think
as the mauve pile
slips into the printer-slot
his bold font choice
faced away
the list of gigs obsolete
my play is all about the dead
how their voices echo
and I print it out
with a smirk
it’s still too soon to write
his character out of my head
what, with the old vice grips
yet to sell, these resumes to recycle
and the earlier deaths to purge
