Private Box

You enter as the actors start. On-stage,
the ingenue and leading man declaim
against the cynicism of old age
that thwarts their chance to share a common name.
But separate, they’re better off, you think.
You broke a heart, or two, to marry well,
and lack for nothing, now, except a drink.
Downstairs, you have a few before the bell
can cut your Stingers off. By then, of course,
you’re blotto. Ushers help you to your seat.
You almost shout: There’s money in divorce.
Instead, the couple hugs. The play’s complete.
For you, young men wrote sonnets, but no more.
Your eyes go shut like coffins and you snore.