With this poem, I proved I can spend three hours agonizing over word choice and the placement of commas and still not be happy. Oh, how I love writing poetry.

After the Show
by Rb

The curtain closes, and life begins again.
You wipe off your makeup and put it away
before neatly hanging up your costumes,
empty shells of dreams of dreams.
Now, blue jeans and sweatshirts are
the costumes you wear. Commiserating
over lost lines, missed cues, and all
the tiny tragedies of any performance,
you all go out for drinks at some seedy bar
or for a late dinner at some place in the city
just like any other, just like any other.
Maybe some audience members will be
there, reminiscing over their favorite scenes;
they might recognize you. They might not.

A stage is a graveyard, where ghosts
appear every night. Actors are applauded
for being illusions, mirages, unreal --
and yet more true than life itself.