Someone is always carting
The scenery off to the wings.
The thickness of the air,
The darkness that darkens there
Will cover trees and gardens,
Waterfronts and water.

All places that have been
With me will wear away.
I do not lift my voice
Or raise a hand. I am
Not capable of force,
Feeling myself at stake.

And if this movement seems
A kind of theft, well then
I am no more than witness
To a crime. I have no choice.
My role is forced on me,
It keeps my nerves on edge.

I wish I were at ease.
Not sure of where I stand
In the long haul to the wings,
I take things as they come
And let them go. I have
No final say in the matter.

The clicking of switches,
The shuffling behind the scenes
Almost make me suspect
That someone wishes me wrong.
And yet, all that I see
Is level and aboveboard.

How long this will keep up,
I am not sure. My time
Is spent recalling all
I can of what has passed.
I try my best to believe
That nothing is wholly lost.

And I don’t get anywhere:
My mind does not support
My pastime well. For all
I know, I might do better
To try picking a time
When all this will be over,

And the last scene arrive,
The lights dim, and I,
Set free from all the places
I have never really been,
Move on beyond the curtains
Of a closing night.