Shows Over, Folks

after the show

turn off the lights

Start beneath the stage

in the dressing room farthest from the door

fishnets and shoes sprawl about, you can almost hear

actors up on stage, chorus dashing downstairs for a quick change

the room is breathing, faint voices humming snatches of

the next song

Through the next dressing room (here there is an abandoned lipstick)

to the bathroom

there’s a dead spider in the stall closest to the door

you can’t see it, but you remember it,

trapped in its own dusty web, dry body strangely tragic 

Up the stairs to the house,

go ahead, take center stage

face the empty seats

close your eyes and remember

the laughter, applause, the rise and fall of actor’s voices

you are on stage, but no one sees you

Close the house doors

flick off the lights in the booth

then in the house; imagine the red curtains and seats

worn and plush in the black

(your footsteps are too loud in the lobby, too lonely)

lock the glass doors behind you, now,

and pocket the key

stitch a path home with footprints in the snow

and

the lights go down

the show is over.