It could be worse, unlikely as that seems.
We have paid to watch an angry woman talk.
We get more than we’ve bargained for: she screams.
About unfairness. She says choices stalk
and mess her up. She says she tires of Free.
She strides unlady likely on the stage
demanding Structure, hating Sartre. ‘He,’
nonstop she’s shrilling, ‘has saddled me with rage!’
I could ask how, but fear that would incite
her formulation of a louder answer.
I cannot stand to sit here stunned all night.
There is mostly monologue, no song, no dancer.
I watch my watch and realise some days
the ticket’s not the only price one pays.