The Sense of Crisis

Though the daily melodrama
Of toss-up choices and of chance events
Steels man to silence and the stern pretense
Of tragic spirit, happy woman
Thrives on such unhappy signs,
Will inevitably thrill you
With the choicest lines.

When the introspective suitor
Rehearses for his love a past affair,
She runs an easy hand through his poor hair
Until the broken speech has cued her
To compassionate reply:
“Was she very beautiful? Will you
Love her till you die?”

While the actor is invaded
By nightmare conflict of his waking wills
The starlet takes a dozen sleeping pills.
Hamlet, on the parapet, decided
Suicide would never do
When he recognized Ophelia
Might attempt it too.