Stubs

The boxes stacked, a dusty tomb,

Each item catalogued and filed.

Then in a corner of her room,

A small, forgotten cardboard wild.

A stash of tickets, bright and worn,

For shows I never heard her name.

A playwright born, a story torn,

From some unlived, unlit flame.

The dates ran on, a steady line,

From spring to fall, from year to year.

A secret life, no longer mine

To question, or to hold so dear.

What plays she saw, or wished she had,

What roles she played when I was young.

The paper thin, the ink gone bad,

A silent song, forever unsung.