Wilted peonies

Actors on a stage
badly painted back drop
of a river and trees
an empty park
an empty chair—
old leather boots beneath
and a script that requires no talent
no emotion
no voice—
the curtain closes
and the actors bow,
the audience erupts, for a standing ovation
the lead actress, wipes her eye and clutches her bouquet
of wilted peonies and pansies and leaves
and in the green room
nails bitten to the quick,
the writer stares into his own empty eyes
and wonders when things got this bad