nine of wands

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.

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