The Confetti Monologues was a series of 10 monologue poems, written and performed by 10 poets, which centred around the inner dialogue of guests at a wedding. My character was named, simply, The Weatherman.
The Weatherman
Several people sit at a table. They're halfway through the meal at a wedding reception. All freeze except for Weatherman aka South.
Weatherman points at the audience to his left.
To the west
dry
and moderate.
He points to the audience opposite him.
To the north
hot
and temperamental.
He points to the audience to his right.
To the east
mostly sunny
with scattered showers.
Points at himself.
To the south
mild (looks uncomfortable, like he's holding in a fart)
with light winds.
We're all miserable.
But you can tell that
can't you.
It's in the way we dress:
North
in red and red and red
red lips
red dress
red wine.
West
in brown and brown and brown.
Hair
suit
tie.
East
too old to be in pink
and pink
and pink.
And here in a room
galvanised in white
we know there will be
a frost overnight.
We're all miserable.
He takes a swig of his wine.
South
a journalist
I read the weather.
I read the weather
I follow the skies
I turn mathematics
into satellite eyes.
I can follow this crowd
with the same dedication
and read their future
with the same predication.
But I'm mild
I'm calm
I'll never react.
I'll never report
for fear of impact.
Never announce
that the bride
fogged in white
has taken her vows
to Mister Not-Right.
South
I'm a journalist
I read the weather.
And this little crew
is miserable together.
North
is divorced.
Ran three
or four heats.
West
is in love
with each woman he meets.
East
is the one
who dumps every chappy.
South
is the one
who would make the bride happy.
South
I'm a journalist
I read the weather.
I'm mild
light winds
and she
skipped away
light as a feather.
We're all miserable.
© Laura Smith 2009
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