The Actor

In Scene One,
I shiver
beside a vent
in lollipop
alone in an
antiseptic room.

Strangers call me
Dad and bring
me macaroni;
I paint the walls
with a dribble
and a grin.

They go out again,
shoes on ice,
tundra in the hall;
a cold north wind
blows closed
the sterile,
numbered door.

No one hears
the slam;
I build a fire
and dance
before the flames.

In Scene Two,
when the maid
comes in
to make my bed,
she doesn�t notice
I am dead,
speaks kindly,
stirs the coals.

In Scene Three,
we are wed;
I take up Solitaire,
she lights cigarettes
and leans against
the door, sultry
in her tattered gown.

Our carriage arrives
each day at noon
and leaves again at one;
while we dream inside,
the driver pretends
he�s glad to be alone.

He knows when
not to prattle;
to see the world
we�re denied,
my bride throws
back the sash.

A caravan of fools
with useless limbs
and empty heads.

In my room
a cheerful crash,
as another tree
goes down.

In my room
a soft caress,
before the truth
is found.

In Scene Four,
a knock comes
at the door;
it is evening now,
starlight enters
without a sound.

I stand behind
the curtain,
ready to go on.

December 10, 2005

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