The Graduate: Another In a Series of Poems
Substituting for Movie Review I Never Got
Around To Writing
For Maria
Few movies are clear by the end,
only obvious in the beginning.
But Just look at the last scene on the bus,
the rows of onlookers.
Make no mistake. They hate him
and her by default.
She didn't have to be wearing
a runaway bride's atire
for them to recognize a person
playing outside of their typecasting.
Maybe one of them searches
for a change of clothes for an ersatz bride,
some sign of a masquerade,
becoming more outraged
when there isn't even any luggage.
How dare they walk out on their roles
of dowry-minding betrothed
and silent son, waiting in
unrealeased anger to be
a Shakespearean villian eventually killed
by one of his betters--
roles the observers
died to audition for,
Even if they regretted getting their parts
later, the two are deemed
uppity for not accepting misery.
I imaging his bride, staring back,
thinking out for another door
to run out of, stopping when she realizes
there's nowhere left she can run to.
No comments:
Post a Comment