Splintered wood and plastic chips

Somehow mean so much in the moment

But what are they worth after the fact?

Pretty faces, skinny bodies adorn the stage

And I am not one of them

If I was, people would want me to scrawl my name

On a battered program, too

Or a napkin; what do they do with such keepsakes?

My own are merely stuffed away in some place I cannot locate

Nor will I ever have need to

God bless those who have become nothing more than a signature to the rest of the world