Appendix A. (Revision)
There’s a mirror-man,
with dark, rough hands,
in the theatre of retrospect
cueing our fine intros.
His cane swings to still stuttering lips,
his over-weight pride en-lightens.
Destroyer and builder
in turns I smile and fight him
as his bruised hands beckon the next act.
Stage lights flare precisely
as our players praise the night,
the curtain falls amid
each improv soliloquy.
“This play you inhabit, says he,
is deadly serious.
You lament the things that uproot you,
but if lightning suits your complexion
you celebrate the ruining storms.”
Feste's Lute 