Maybe you'll see a point to this, this mise en scene, an aging guy,
Forced inside by rain, a steady drizzle ruining his three-day
Weekend on Nebraska's plains. His wife's away. His ditzy
Niece is holed up upstairs, probably preparing to pack up
And fly back home. There's nothing here. It's as if Ionesco,
Maybe Beckett, had designed the place. Will Godot show up?
I don't think so, unless he's in cowboy boots and drives
A hulking pickup truck. The music service supplies jazz,
The same ten McCoy Tyner songs. If not for my unsympathetic
Pacemaker, my heart would stop, stilled by disinterest. I doubt
That Godot intends to come. I doubt that season ticket holders
Will be willing to keep seated, once they've scanned this mise
En scene. This threadbare stage should make it clear that
They should just go home.