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morning mirrors see his fame and glamor,
molded down a sunset alley, woven by the
lads from tulsa, then honed by crafty dressers

wise, and knowing to his ways, maestros of the
shadow, divas ripe and fondling, with hoots of joy,
his houselights, purveyors bound to show his voluptuous

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

colored, arouse some arrogant monsieur lying
waiting, leeching his a.miller from the balcony
reeling him into wings that might betray him

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

rhythmed, a harpo young and dangerous, a
boulevarded bette, understudied for a closing
arthouse, and morning becomes another cattle call,

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