Backstage

Backstage – live theatre,
A confusing joint out of joint,
Held together by the powerful
Muscles of gentle hands.
Hands that cupped the chin of
A youth filled actor’s smile; these same hands
Forced nails to wood, fulfilled
A Director’s dream – fused a small edifice.

The work, the work, the job,
A business of knowing
And putting forth; of stress and
Tension of fiber.
We are the set, the flats and
Platforms – We could easily
Stand at their marks knowing
Their place and purpose to each scene.

It is all alive, we are a live theatre;
There is blood coursing through
Every constructed piece and prop
And we are the heart
That moves them, our mystery intact.
We are the core, the actor’s debt,
The magic of placement and design,
Driven by perfection and a call to work.

At backstage, gestures become speech; muffled
Curses, swears, and thank you’s –
Bruises are worn like medals.
Each crewmember works alone as one.
Then in darkness and whispers we stand at
The wings, awaiting the joy to come –
The applause;
It is for us, too.

From first draft to finale,
We knew it was coming –
The end, the death, the final strike.
The play of set, sound, and sights
Has dust curled in its corner’s
I have never learned to say “Good-bye”,
Only the magnet of opportunity
And the pride of the Artisan.