The actress slumbers next to my bed. Safe inside a makeup case no doubt once carried on a train by an elegant traveler. The scent of the open luggage puts me on the express track back somewhere, buried in the archives of mind.
After attempts to scrub its surface, remove the age spots, i have given up. The photo in the battered frame with no glass likewise has seen it all or at least, much. Hedy breaking down with age glances over her shoulder with the inimitable come-hither gaze. She is my guardian angel, la Magdalena, mi virgen de Guadalupe, Her Majesty of the Boudoir.
Don't know how she got there, in the case. Apparently showed up one day for the job and stayed. Hedy looks, how i feel. The inner actress walks out on stage with no understudy into a new scene which dawns each day while
Hedy stays home.
Improv is so unsafe till you hear that sound
so you stand applauded and take the bow.
You go home and tell her how it was and
she gives you the look.
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