came off beautifully,
Chekhovian rules of dramaturgy,
rule one being: if you bring a gun
onto the stage, you have to use it.
Of course, I only saw the second act,
the service in your memory
where two dozen candles burned inside
a dozen pairs of your exquisite, empty shoes,
each flame reflected, multiplied,
in the polish of your hand-sewn, two-toned,
butter-soft balmorals and wing-tipped
brogues, oxfords, loafers, dirty bucks
that promised any minute to ignite
a pyre of hide and eyelet,
tassel, heel bed, wax and wick.
Talk wound down. Candles sputtered,
guttered in their liquid and your shoes
did what shoes do without owners:
props. Leading me back
to the first, more problematic act.
Too minimalist, too bare.
That single chair. The shotgun.
And the cast of one.