Last night the actors
trod the boards
carrying us on their backs.
This wasn’t Pittsburgh
but we believed it so.
We’ve never been to the Hill
but we walked its blighted streets.
In the mirror we are white,
but not last evening.
He is five years dead
but last night
August Wilson escorted us
to a place
we had never imagined,
and we were all
too glad to visit.
an old writer and his words 
This is such a good poem. I love how it captures the atmosphere of the theater, the way the actors draw you in, and how a good play makes you feel like you’re part of it. And August Wilson is one of my favorites. 🙂 Thank you for sharing this!