“You, you,” he points at you,
“You can’t be in my audience,”
And collapses.
There are no stagehands here
To shuffle away his bones,
“It’s a one man show!”
He now understands his mistake,
But he’s proud of shrinking
The universe down to a man.
Who does that?
“The Artist!” he’ll inevitably cry
And laugh because it’s ludicrous.
“I took tickets too.”
And he cleaned the aisles
And he built you a throne
With cheesecloth and cardboard,
“And my soul!” Yes, yes, of course.
And there now you are
In the throne he constructed
And he’s not ready to be seen or heard
“Or exist!” No, no, of course.
