The craft of theater

As we stand backstage in the rags of our trade
Princes’ costumes sweep whispers in the merciful darkness.
A few feet away,
in the harsh light,
dust rises heavenward
While we hold our breath, short, measured pounding
Hidden from all life,
real or manufactured
Awaiting the cue that will set us in motion
Fill us with words we have appropriated,
Borrowed
and that own us now with steel certainty.
I see your figures, bolted and sharp with purpose
Ours is a world of cardboard, thread
Wooden shafts and bits of refuse
We don splendidly.
And we desperately want “them” to believe
That our tears are real – and well they may be.
See confusion in their eyes as they can’t tell us apart
The embracing spirit that steals our likeness
In our private intercourse.
But suddenly – a laugh, a cigarette, a Styrofoam cup
Anachronistic details that startle you.
Our doppleganger dissolves for the beholder