Working on the MTA

I am giving away all my things. An actor asks, “are you suicidal?” I hand him a hat covered in gold sequins and kiss him on the cheek before exiting the MTA. I exit the MTA and take off my sweater, dropping it into an open guitar case where a guy yells, “get off my case” in a southern twang as he clawhammers his banjo. I smile, taking off my pants and hanging them on the metal fence around the community garden that’s been closed for months. A shriveled morning glory raises her tired head and says, “what am I supposed to do with those?” I smile, shaking my head. “Get off me case,” I whisper and wink, peeling off my bra and throwing it at Elton John, who’s live in concert in the middle of Times Square, only no one else is there. All the lights have gone off. The moon lights Elton so well it's hard to tell who is the moon and who is Elton John. I look at the moon and she sings Tiny Dancer as I peel off my organic underpants and throw them at the moon, who catches them, like a hot air balloon sailing over the East River, watching ferries wake across the filthy water, I take off my skin and walk in, a pile of bones, three dead fish, and an old tire.

9-5 or 10 out of 12

I am quitting my job on the first day. It’s September 11, 2011. I’m not telling anyone. I meet the associate director. He says, “I’m the only one around here who directs fucking plays anymore.” I’m not telling anyone. Many things happen. I’m not telling anyone. I am taping sandpaper on tap shoes. The dancers still lose their grip. I am making lesions. I am taping mustaches on faces. I am toning Lady Macbeth’s hair at midnight when lightning strikes. I’m not telling anyone. The playwright sleeps on the sofa. The actor sleeps on a cot in the hallway. The crew lie on the floor on Saturday mornings. I go to the farmer’s market for carrots. I am highlighting everyone’s hair. The house lights come up. I’m unzipping another dress. The house lights go down. The zipper is stuck. It rains mylar from the grid. It rains water from the grid. A fake pumpkin falls from the grid in the middle of an earthquake. The man who died in a teevee fire and I kiss. Back then we were still kids. It’s June 21, 2019. I am quitting my job. This time, for real. Lightning rarely strikes twice unless––is this Macbeth?