Set sliced, diced, parceled out for future use
into appropriate piles of lumber, tables, doors.
Green room vacuumed, ghosts of shows
from long ago still watching from the naked
ceiling pipes above, waiting for revivals of
their favorite parts, before they leave for good.
Lines memorized, recited, sometimes dropped
and covered by astute companions so the
audience was fooled, soon forgotten
with the advent of new roles or simply life
and all that means. To play another person,
different from the norm in every way,
refreshing, challenge and delight, but
post-performance blues are nothing new.
So much time back in one's schedule,
plenty there to fill it, true, but when you're
done, there's no receiving line where
countless hands are shaken as they assure
you that you're great. Having a director
tell you when to speak or walk or laugh
can be pleasant switch from that which
passes as reality, where all such choices
are one's own and those for whom
we may perform are rarely known to
break out into enraptured and
spontaneous applause.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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