The house lights dim again: Willy Loman, Vanya, Lear
talk to the dark before their eyes
– while you glance sideways at your neighbours,
who’ve brought their lovers,
husbands, wives
to sit beside them (or to occupy their minds).
What do they want to see? The play goes on,
into its last deciding act. A few will leave early:
their spirits rise apologetically and drift toward the doors.
Some women weep,
some men feel anger at their own bald age
as Lear is lost in grief.
Applause is ferocious at the end.
How can they leave? There must be more.
What’s next?
The pages of the programme have gone blank.
‘Shall we go round to see the people in the show?’
To find the dressing rooms empty, bare.
Others, wiser, luckier,
head home.
