Yesterday I ordered up another dozen extras,
cardboard characters cut to suit the story:
a toothless crone selling apples by the road;
nine young soldiers marching in faded uniforms
behind a sergeant with a Southern drawl;
the buxom wench who served my hero at the inn.
After laboring through a scene or two
with a dragging foot, a dented hat,
or hair the color of butter, they are sent,
unpaid, to the home for unwanted characters
where they put their feet up on the table
and dream of having names of their own.
(First published in Main Street Rag)
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