CASABLANCA <br /> <br />a cracked and yellowing copy of Casablanca <br /> runs, sometimes, in a little theater <br /> just behind my heart (around the corner <br /> from the moment we met): Rick sits <br /> embedded in quicksand, elbows holding <br /> the table down, pouring endless whiskey in <br />to douse the smoldering pile of memories' <br /> ashes on the floor of his stomach. <br /> <br /> piano keys are tinkling, constantly <br /> just out of earshot; Sam, slumped <br /> over the keyboard, elbows-to-keys, <br /> palm-to-cheek, unshackled, supporting <br /> the weight of Rick's slack jaw <br /> and faraway stare, for <br /> (never really) obvious, yet quite <br /> inescapable, reasons <br /> <br />the palest light radiates <br /> from her face; her fairytale faith <br /> in impossibly happy endings is cut <br /> into the lines of her suit; romance (surviving <br /> in the face of life's beatings and war's <br /> grand follies) paints her lips; belief <br /> in the magic <br /> of a song, is an apology <br /> in her eyes <br /> <br /> poor Sam (stretched tight between two <br /> poles, he caresses their memories, fingers <br /> the keys, takes his silver, <br /> and never wavers, he) <br /> picks out the piece he was born to play, <br /> the sword only Rick can pull <br /> from the stone of broken hearts; and slowly turns, <br /> eyes woken with disbelief <br /> and joy....as time's stage <br /> door creaks <br /> open, and the curtain goes up <br /> <br />a cracked and yellowing copy of <br /> love's tragedy chatters in my ear, occasionally <br /> demanding that i prove i'll still <br /> take the risks, knowing the finale <br /> is not a fairytale, but a foggy play <br /> about passion and pain <br /> and silent, wet departures. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />© Copyright 2010 christo (UN: christo13 at Writing.Com) . All rights reserved.<br /><br />christo andrus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/casablanca-3/
