You walk into a theatre in the semi-dark
a tiny stage holding up a candle
a few actors are pacing from shadow to shadow
mouthing some misty emblematic rhetoric
about incest and a garden that has telescopes

But you hear something and look
a stout lady in furs is pouting over
a script and the director
is fondling his braces’ purple
the prop man is commiserating with a girlfriend on the telephone

and a character actor is explaining the ticket tax
to a voluptuary usherette who’s bleached
the producer has his feet up on the row in front
it’s none of these, is it? ticking away
the lead is patting her hair and picking her teeth