When I Don’t Quite Make It

I come close to the set where
the television actors are,
but I don’t quite make it.
There’s a sign on the door that says
so I do not enter.
I’d like to know what’s inside.
Clean sandwiches?
Cheque books?

Somewhere beige-walled foyers are,
with clean terracotta tiles,
the sun shines in on a brilliant perfect
Southern California morning,
but I do not make it.
I’m not there.
Their children are, not mine.
I breathe in with blood in my lungs.
Then I cough and hack something up.
My children are passing glances at doors
I saw Larry Hagman go bye-bye behind.


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