Was it wrong to believe

for a short while

that I could recapture a moment

in time,

fleeting perhaps,

the small gesture

of alluded art that I so desperately

wanted to be part of.

That to dream of standing

before you, the lonely virginal

player, steeped in the allure

of the greasepaint and the single

short monologue

in which to make

an entrance with,

to make people sit up

and take notice of,

was that ever so wrong.

Into drastic middle age, early death has been defied

and the spirit of youth once thought crushed,

I see a glimmer of just the fanfare of nerves

catching fire, being urged on

to sit on a stage, legs crossed,

book in hand

and read for you my dear,

make love to me

because I do not like

being wrapped in white

and playing the coy stage maid.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016.