Time Is Wasted

Belle et Bonne carries Kobo up to the stage and places her on it. Then she goes and sits down next to Ageless.

Kobo is tiny. She is the colour of sand.

She waits for silence. Silence falls.

Mine is a long story, says Kobo. And that is the name of my poem.

the long story

i was once a living clam
and life was fast and furious
i was a man

a man with a man clam's manhood
that
is life for a young adult clam

i grew older
i was on the cusp of becoming a woman
life was soft mature and creamy

then

o then

something happened
geological
i was buried in clay
my body rotted away

portion by portion
i was transformed
over eons and eons
into stone

if you know what boredom is my poets
you will.....

Ahem, says Young Dawkins, Kobo, would you mind perhaps abridging that part? We have other poets to get through.

Kobo nods, and continues.

i spent my days and nights in reading
books about sand
and the men and women
buried in it
and books about stones
until i met ageless

i never expected to love ageless.
but he pursued me
he said i was his girlfriend
i played along

he has no right to think of me as his reward.
now that i love another.

Who! cries Ageless.

Who? cry all the poets.

This is not an interactive poem, says Kobo. You must not ask. And I must not tell you. And that is because he is a famous poet. It would not be proper.

Young Dawkins is jumping up and down with impatience.

He would like to wring her neck. Spit it out, Kobo! Then we can all get on with the freaking competition.

But Kobo stands there as though waiting for a trigger.