He was cast as a minor Elf,
the one always at the edge
of the frame, running into
battle or contemplating
grave proclamations. His
children tried to find him,
point him out with ecstatically
jabbing fingers, but they
were always wrong.

Years later at a bit players’
convention he laughed
with extra Munchkins, drank
to a forgotten Klingon
whose name was lost
in credits, and signed
a couple of notebook pages
hastily ripped out by people
who felt that they should
know him.

On his deathbed, he fell
back into an old delirium. In
his mind, he was still
running, endlessly attempting
to catch the camera and
still, always, the only
thing in view would be
his hands.

Chloe N. Clark is a creative writing major at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. She has had poems published in Halfway Down the Stairs, Interrobang!?, Shaking like a Mountain, Sliver of Stone, and Verse Wisconsin.

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