Taking words from the playwright,
. . . .he slips them on -
. .a garment so perfectly fitted
. . .it molds without seam to
. . . .his being.
. . . . .He is a prince,
. . . . . .a charlatan,
. . . . . . .a salesman.
Bound together in footlight,
. . . . .in spotlight,
. . .those dreams take form and voice -
. . . .and live suspended,
. . . . .solid in shadows.
After applause and curtain calls
. . .the words fall off
. . . . .with pancake and cold cream,
. . .silent, black on white,
. . . .waiting for him to give life again
tomorrow and tomorrow.
Grabbing his leather jacket,
. . .a final glance at his reflection,
. . . .the actor bows his way into
. . . . . .the ordinary night.
by Yvonne-Lorraine Powell