A Stage Exists Someplace
A POEM
When players voices no longer ring,
A set becomes a shabby thing —
Forgotten dreams, an unreal town.
It’s time that we should pull it down.
But I pause to reminisce a while.
I said my lines with frown or smile,
To fit the action; but now it’s past.
My little victories could not last —
In barren disarray they lie
With all the dreams that passed me by.
I shudder at time’s implacable pace.
Yet I know a stage exists someplace
Where I shall say my lines again
And sing of things that might have been
Where nothing holy is cast away,
And secret dreams shall have their day.
You May Also Enjoy
Around our March balcony tonight
Fog closes its slight hand — illusive blue —
Poetry was once understood to be an anthropological episteme, a way of knowing, if only through a glass darkly.