I am dramatically awaiting an enemy. I have already bandaged my head In anticipation of the wound. The gauze is of the cleanest white Cocked rakishly on my forehead. My cheeks are flushed with theater. I must say I expected The wall of blossoming staffs. I model with one In a stance that seems of the time. Is this what they want? Beyond this spotlit stage, The real world stretches forever Like a prisoner on the rack.