The pretender
stands between two black curtains,
ropes and pulleys running to the ceiling
like the rigging of a ship delivering
far-fetched tales
to a land hungry for narrative escape.
Parapets and drawbridges float above his
head,
scenery constructed by the author of all
things below.
He listens to lines of dialogue recited on
castle ramparts,
counting the beats, measuring each iambic
strobe of life
before inhaling and stepping across wooden
boards
into the terrible and glorious lights of
the proscenium.
“The troops have arrived, m’lord!”
And then he is gone, sequestered in a
dressing room
before being turned loose at the stage
door.
A bus lumbers by, and he waves away
exhaust
with a hand that moments earlier wore a
white glove
and gestured to a prince of some dire warning
of invasion.
At home, he sits on a couch in front of
the TV
and surveys white cartons from a Chinese
takeout
arranged like a small fortress waiting for
a siege.
Tomorrow he will get a call from the
author of all things below
as do we all before stepping into a world
hungry for narrative,
having waited in the wings for our cue to
swell a scene
and tend to matters most mundane but
necessary to the show.
~William Hammett
Site Map
No comments:
Post a Comment