A Director's Perch

Slumping on damp deck planks is fine for wandering troubadours, but midday demands proper backstage seating. I scaled the woven leg of the wicker armchair by the porch rail, digging my sneakers into the braided cane until I hoisted myself squarely onto the faded floral cushion. Right in the middle sat an old wooden clothespin with a rusted metal spring. Naturally, a stage needs management. I picked it up, clipped it straight onto the cushion's ruffled seam like a director's marker, leaned back with an arm draped over the armrest, and surveyed my quiet backyard set with a dry, approving smirk.