For the first time in a long time, we went to the cinema yesterday. Watching the trailers and adverts on a huge scale, amplified the so perfect appearance of the actors and got me to thinking. This poem is the result.
So Not Hollywood
Escape from reality, go to the movies.
That’s the theory.
I find it grinds my face into the dirt of true life
with all the grace and finesse of
Arnold Schwarzenegger's acting.
It’s the “so-unlike-me-ness” of people on screen.
The languid elegance of romantic leads,
the sassy smart snappiness of their dialogue,
apart from the ripped torsos and
teeth that cause snow blindness.
How could I ever fit into their world?
But I settle in, letting those questions
float away on the sea of suspended disbelief,
punctuated by the holding of hands and
changes of position as we find new ways to snuggle.
Later, the counter argument knocks on my door.
Anyone can be on their game for a hundred minutes
that took three months to film,
a writer five years to draft, sculpt and
re-write and re-write and re-write.
We devise our scenes daily
making tragic and comic gold
and the story is still worth telling.
Our love is so not Hollywood
but it should be.