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Painted Faces
In the tiny dressing room
he sits carefully daubing grease paint
over old traces
of yesterday’s faces
pursed lips and frowns in the mirror
bid fingers to make corrections
to tiny imperfections
Then comes the waited knock on the door
and the dimming of the lights
the familiar upward crank of the curtain
and the hush of a dim sea of faces
the strong voltage of the current
flowing from him to them
connecting him to his lines
powering these few hours of life
Alive once again
a jerky puppet
steps motions and words
sure clear convincing
flash out into the hush
they, drawing life from him
and he from them
as a new reality unfolds
Then suddenly sadly
its all over
applause, curtain calls, bouquets
hurried handshakes
perfumed kisses on the cheek
accompany him back to the little room
Door closed now
he removes his clothes
one by one
in an untidy pile
and wipes the paint
from an expressionless mask
empty theatre now
empty face
just a little old man
with a battered suitcase
shuffling into the wind
and the sounds of the cleaners
removing discarded programs
© Johnmichael Simon
2004
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