Feste's Lute

there’s a mirror-man,
with dark, rough hands,
in the theatre-alley of retrospect
that cues the finest intros

his long-cane stills my stuttering lips
and over-weight pride en-lightens

a destroyer and a builder
in turns I smile and fight him as
his bruised hands motion for my next act

bright stage lights flare precisely
when I want a night scene
the curtain falls untimely
on my improv soliloquy

This play you inhabit, he intones
while deadly serious is not without joy
but you lament the things that uproot you
and celebrate the ruining storms
because lightning suits your complexion.
Is it only so because you won’t face the sun?