Another protagonist sputtering,
straight through grieving and into
a close-up’s solitude.
Cry, chief. Puddle up.
Grate my screen, make my wife cry.
Show me a nimble fellow face,
and turn it, twist it— don’t spare
a single, blubbering lip-twitch.
Cascade into flinches,
then turn red… hold it… hold… there.
Now steer into a little howl
like a late night nor’wester.
Look what you’ve discovered:
The story’s sad point, oh, right there,
uncovered like an ancient button,
swept clean of dust.
You’ve pressed it— the device triggers.
Now the delivery can be prime,
the drama propped, shoved,
whimpering up where the score
grants a deep appraisal.
Go on— cry those socket-faucets raw.
Soon, a fade-out or another character
will encroach on this moment
to start up the film again.