Tradition

bathes in the habit of self-aggrandizement.
Hugs and kisses and clever praises slather in the
wake of the last performance where the glory has
vaporized and the performers flail in the
thinner air of some next show.

The draining blood of the latest corps that
didn’t get taken on the road is waded through
as hands clasp and snippets of the just ended
triumph are exchanged and the sounds of
striking the sets invade the reverie.

Oh fleeting theatrical moment
thou art over. Do not end. Do not mortal be.
Let me resurrect thee eternally.
I am a turned-away lover unable
to enter and be on.

Like war, like a lifespan, like a blossom
wilted, like a painting unfixed and faded
the created reality which sustained us
in such heights has had its run.
Why don’t we sculpt in stone?

Ah, indeed why? Do performers
understand better the allure of eternal
life by virtue of their craft? We build
it, we play it briefly, it’s gone. We
do it over and over seeking perfection.

Are we vainglorious fools?