Hard, hot, thick lights
swallowing my facial features
brought out by three pounds
of make up
and a costume, covered
in smears of orange
also eaten by the strong lights.
Twirl around, yell a little
exaggerate the circumstances
and project project project.
The doors slam, and a breath
is stolen from the recycled air
behind canvas walls.
A collective sound of laughing
and a rembrance of why we worked
for two months just for this
at the curtain call
hands smacking together
a whistle, a cheer.
Undress, deflate,
played to perfection, darling,
to perfection.
I am not I.
The lights go down
but the make up
sticks for days.

04/20/2002

Posted on 04/20/2002
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