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morning becomes his wailing wall, newly
enstoned each rising, newly and arcanely patterned
with a night's excretions, newly sterile, enclosing

day in that other place, where windows see his
golem, molded on the tidal flats, woven by the
fortune flies, then clothed by ancient dressers

wise, and knowing to his ways, where to
shadow, when to down with frugal smirks
houselights, that might show his overripe

mascara, his archly painted flowered lips, his
lashes, found neglected in a backstage box,
slice into yester evening's rouge, wrongly and sublimely

colored, arouse some arrogant demi-monde lying
waiting, leeching his a.miller from the balcony
reeling him into wings that could subsume him

and so he piccolos for cues, anxious to a drum roll
that would move his feet from shadows, move
his narrow instep into choreography badly

rhythmed, twirling whirly-gigs to send him front and
center, some rawly and contrived pirandot, some
boulevarded bette, understudied for a closing

arthouse, and morning becomes another cattle call,
tra, one two, la, one two, louder, one two
higher, one two .... one two ....

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