he spotted a star when casted:
the elements of persona and presence,
so perfect for a critical chemistry ---
a demanding art commends.
at seven the lines are said:
re-read from the voice,
re-read from the memory,
re-read from the body.
every movement keen,
angles and curves lighted
shadows for her little hairs
brushing through his sinews
her shins for him to smooch
the welcoming crevices:
the delicate neck,
the pool in the navel,
the valley of the bosom,
thrashed in the makeshift bed
a make-believe scene
every thespian’s night ---
the twin evil of daring and baring,
groping through the back light,
threading catwalks of risqué.
a balancing act:
spotlights and shadows,
discipline and creativity,
talent and desire,
reel and real.
mounting the perfect play,
he burns the stage ---
a respite since youth,
with a gift that thrives,
dormant for the daily grind:
the daytime slavery,
winter cold bed,
as reality bites hard ---
a brood to be schooled,
grown and unaffectionate.
a mortgage to be paid,
a marriage soon-to-be unmade.
a virgin re-born at the gala evening
no, always, always this season,
their hearts pour onto hollows,
passions could only upstage,
all sets, lights and shadows,
as if it’s life’s last performance.
love aborted, now allowed.
reviews and guests regardless
returning artists are crowned,
standing ovation just so priceless.
but in a living room of quilts,
Dora waits for him who’s gone,
her old Romeo reliving his youth.
maybe retrieving her Chaplin too?
but he dreads this curtain call ---
a harbinger of his old life,
days of enduring his wife’s dry spiels
forever auditioning for his love.
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