Instead, they pull their swollen anger tight,
walk it like a wire stretched between
the pliant mask of well-rehearsed delight
they’ve brought for your approval and the scene
they want but will not let themselves describe.
Music they would have you dance to haunts them.
They won’t accept that you don’t hear it. The bribe
they never guessed you would refuse taunts them.
They think the answer’s only yours to give,
that only you can make the question live.