The thing about theatre is it goes away.
There's nothing to touch.
For a few weeks.
Then puffs out.
Arrived three minutes late to a ballroom on Ravenswood and Irving Park.
Ate a blueberry muffin on the floor.
Sacheted awkwardly to Shania Twain.
Secured new lines concerning gender, Hathaway, sex, competition, and so on.
And so on and in his Honda he was out there a waiting,
Chinese dumplings in hand.
Winter coat a gape
And so on,
and lots of thick skin and lots of settled dust and lots of perfect toast.