CLOSING NIGHT
Goodnight
the darkness closes in
as the theater spills its patrons
into the street.
The last act is finished,
the curtain is down,
no fanfare,
no standing ovation,
mild applause.
The reviews, save the one
from the underground rag,
were all bad.
The players will look
for new work in the morning.
The theater will house
a new playwright’s child.
I leave meekly out the stage entrance
into the alley —
always the alley —
overflowing garbage cans
stray cats
stench of vomit.
You join the crowd
push your way out into the street,
with its bright lights, laughter
smell of hot pretzels,
carnival air.
The crowd moves past the alley
where my unnoticed shadow climbs
a fire escape to a small
cluttered room
to study far into the morning,
reviewing the mistakes
of my past performance,
practicing my new lines.
By David Allen
Type Dancing 