I can take any empty space and call it a bare stage.
Acoustics so fine
that Hamlet hears each yawn and sigh
emerging from the audience
as he recites
those too-familiar lines of moody character.
One hears the sneers drop,
not the pins. The pressure of those eyes
deflate the lungs of air
as if Shaw's drawing room sat in Nepal,
high on a narrow ledge
in air too thin for breath,
or that Hedda Gabler shot herself
in some mall window, as display.
But here, in this quiet, with just the scrape
of my shoes over the stage,
I stare up at that masked, single spot
clamped to some rod in Heaven.
And when I see where it shines,
I know why actors stand here:
Because it shines on me.
Survivor Poetry Contest
Trigger 40, Poet's Choice (Free Verse)