At the end of the dance what do you see?
When they collapse
What do you see?
The leads
The dog
That cute girl in the third row
That way the stage right girls legs are wide open
The cute boy who's in the splits downstage left
The upstage left girl that's in a bent line
Or do you see the other side of thing
The way one girl keeps her legs together
Because she modest
The nice looking boy who's in a legs are in straight line
Because he brother was *****
Do you see the girl who put makeup on her arms
To cover her scars
Or do you see what I see?
The boy in the front
Yeah, you know who I'm talking about
The popular one
He's the one with the perfect life
Put in the front row
He huddles
Into a little ball at the end
Fetal Position
Because he's scared
Scared that someone knows
Know what he covers
His skin, his emotions
Only one can recognize one of their own kind,

the set

upstage center
layer on layer of red brick
one door with screens
three steps in faux cement
bay windows on either side

action stage right
a young girl dances in rain
wearing a fake leopard-skin
     leotard

action stage left
a man builds a garage
from a cardboard box
     plan
wooden boards the
     color of brick

action center stage
a young boy aged ten
     poses proudly in
     cub scout uniform
a woman snaps a pic

downstage center
a man plants a tree
     near the road
he waters the tree
he mows the lawn

stage left
a 1950 Olds cutout
     sits in the driveway

in the pit
the concrete street
     has no sidewalk
a woman rides a bike
     pedaling in rhythm
she waves at the
     neighbors

the boy grows up
this is his fake house
they are his fake family
he waits for his
     curtain call

A lifetime.
Erased.  Cut short. Exit stage.
Without a glance downstage.
Fellow players in your tragedy
Left to bow.  To explain.
Words don’t come – but pain…
that flows with the muted
applause.  For the ‘bravery’,
the ‘getting through’.
Away from the spotlight
backstage we wretch.
We cling and we weep.
We struggle to eat, to function, to sleep.
Your new audience greets
You.  You mutter, what show?
I closed it down
It’s no longer mine.
I lowered the curtain.
Shut it down.  Closed it up.
Exit left.
Fellow players that you once inspired
Slow clap your tragedy.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Stammering Before an Audience of One

                                   Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 23

As imperfect poets upon the page
We scribble limping iambs and push them to go
To an impatient audience waiting downstage
For well-spoken truth in a metric flow

A poem, a play - each is a rite of love
Humbly offered like an awkward child’s bouquet
Go on, then, give the rhymes a little shove
Even though your feet, your tongue, your hopes – all are clay

And if gratitude and admiration are in her eyes
She has granted you the worthiest prize!