Enter Poseidon, a large volume of water measuring 600 clear cubic feet
[ . . . ]
I am Poseidon, god of the sea.
I control oceans,
winds, waves, weather, travel by water, death by water, etc.
My function here is to “prologue” the play.
Set:
Look behind me, that pile of rubble, Troy.
Time:
Day after the war —
a day as long as the rest of their lives
for some, e.g.
that mob of dogs and cows you see
downstage —
prisoners of war,
leftover females.
Brains brimming.
They’ll never get to use their brains again — slaves don’t.
They bark and wail — ignore it.
Story so far.
I built Troy — it was me and Apollo
dragged the stones up from the beach.
We built boulevards,
we dreamed of headlights going ghosting through the fog.
I loved this place.
Then came the Greeks.
Came Athene.
Came the Trojan Horse — you know all that.
It was so much killing.
Even the wind was stained with blood for years.
And when it was done they scooped out the city
like a handful of honey
and left,
those Greek boys.
Or
tried to leave.
No wind yet.
They wait by their boats.
I’ll depart soon myself
Religion’s gone out of business here.
Nothing left of Troy now but the dogs and cows — and Helen:
She’s over there, do you see, by the fence, polishing her dew claws.
Hekabe’s the one lying flat on the ground.
She’s the top bitch.
At first she objected to Helen penned up with the dogs
and cows, but Helen just
snapped her jaws and went to sleep.
So Hekabe did too.
Hekabe’s been murdered so many times, no spit left in her.
She lost Priam, lost Polyxena, lost all legendary 50 sons.
Has one daughter surviving — Kassandra,
who’s crazy,
and slated for Agamemnon’s bed.
Goodbye civilization of Troy.
[ . . . ]