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Act 1

Lou Faber

His life was a collapsing theater
of the absurd and he was holding on tightly
but it was slipping through his fingers.
It was not supposed to be this way,
this was not the play he envisioned, yet
he was here, in a cold table read, and
none of the assembled were certain where
the evolving script might take them.
He had imagined appearing throughout
a long, single act dramedy, but she
walked away and he found himself
in an unwanted, unexpected intermezzo.
He would carry on, that was his craft,
that was his hope, somehow get through
the entr’acte, but the emotional wounds
were raw, he had to be on guard, for no one
knew how long the play might be, how long
they could command the stage, who might
be introduced, who might be killed off, or if
he was lost in what would be deemed a tragedy
or a comedy, either one of unending errors.
In his head he was Hamlet between lines,
being and not being, knowing her slings
and arrows had not inflicted a mortal wound.
He vowed to emerge the survivor and not
just another Yorick littering the stage.

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