In the wine shop

The Actor

A good actor
doesn’t need his face
to speak of
shames and humiliations
but merely with his back,
a drop of his neck,
a shift in his hips,
the sigh of his shoulders—
that subtle grandeur of anguish

Look now at
the bottle of scotch,
his one hand
ruddered around it,
my old friend
waiting on line
with no wish
to be seen by me,
his unmistakable head bowed,
performing a quiet aside,
his upstage hand
laying cash on the counter

He says all we need to know
about our Marlowe days;
an actor in silhouette
is a chill of backlit
illumination.