Nothing Happens
I sit in the darkness of the stalls
awaiting a momentous event
that never occurs, as if the action
took place in the green room;
the actors emerged exhausted
by the effort of dressing and makeup,
too tired to propel the plot. I share
the idlers’ ennui as they wait
for someone to rescue them
from provincial tedium. They dream
of somewhere else, where lights
and dancing relieve the boredom
of futile lives: scholars write
unread books, loves are unrequited,
doctors cannot heal themselves
in a comedy without laughs
by Chekhov, and nothing happens.