running lines. He tries out emphasis
as if dropping stones in a rockpool
(I sink. I sink. I sink.) and plays along
with a smoky grin or countermanding fist.Imagine him walking his soliloquy
over the bar of the man-made pool
past cue-card, prompter, stage mark
and off, quite simply, off into the wings.Just ripples of applause, he thinks,
nothing to rise from pit or stalls
to come at him pinpricked in footlights,
bearing down on his exit.Tomorrow, for the matinee,
he plans to say the odd word twice,
see if anyone shifts in their velvet seat,
if anybody past the shoreline blinks.
