PLAYERS

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.

HAVING WRITTEN

I suppose I ought to be glad
that no playwright has ever written
about me, for that is a fame that always
seems to end badly, unless it is a comedy,
and that, too, is dangerous ground,
for such plays tread heavily for a laugh.

Consider Shakespeare, and ask
yourself if yo would want to ever be
one of his protagonists, no doubt ending
up prematurely dead, and carrying all
manner of sin and angst to your grave,
while others gather to note your failures.

I suppose I could try a one-man show,
autobiographical, but only if I directed
myself, and even that would be challenging
as I don’t take direction well, but my early
attempts at its creation failed miserably,
as my audience, the mirror, made clear.