Theatre of Dreams

Theatre of Dreams

In the middle of the second act
unease appears from upstage left
and spreads through the cast
on a tide of anxious glances.

Speeches shrivel up,
replaced by a chorus
of answering machines;
pauses are stretched
into breath-stopping silences;
tea-cups and spoons
desperately clatter
in white-knuckled hands;
eyes frantically
scour the wings
for some unexpected
saviour waiting on his cue.

A wily police-inspector, perhaps -
stuffed full of elementary deductions.

A long-lost relative returned
to ravel up those stray loose ends.

Or, a heavy-set man in black
who seems to know everything . . .

Someone (anyone) to speed
these proceedings toward
the blessings of d?nouement.

Sympathetically,
I search the programme -
but the cast is all accounted for
and must find their way
to curtain-fall alone.

The red-plush feels less comfortable,
the proscenium gilt unbearable,
baleful shadows flood the boxes
spotlights bleach the set
as everything recedes
and distant voices
thunder in my ears:

"There's no-one waiting in the wings,
you're on your own to curtain-fall."