The Patricia and Emmett Robinson Prize
I know my lines, I think; the blocking’s set,
stage business, props, details. I can’t forget.
My costume suits me—sweeping antique lace;
a nervous entrance, pink light on my face.
They know my work—I’m a professional,
the Critic’s Darling, seasoned, magical.
But theatres mask, with shadows everywhere,
sly infestations of the fine and fair.
One more success; can’t I take one last bow?
Applause, enthusiasm, yet, somehow,
the spotlight shifts to bless a younger me.
Exit, stage right—victim of novelty.