The Play's The Thing Poem by Donal Mahoney
The Play's The Thing
Every day
the same play.
The moment I rise,
the first act begins,
the same plot
all over again.
Only the characters,
only the scenery,
vary. Act after act,
no intermission,
no denouement,
it never ends.
Every night,
in the front row,
the same lady
in a plumed hat
stands and shouts,
"Author, Author! "
I smile, I bow,
what else can I do?
Finally I pull the curtain
and turn in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/8/2024 7:47:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
