The Green Room
revolving door of tirades.
Lipsticked moues, red circles that desire
the arc lights.
Never stopping, this parade of
costume changes finds limelight,
then velvet night
behind curtains, drawn tight.
No stuttering here, only artful deceit,
intellectual distance seen
through welling lenses, the mitre where
and overwhelm meet.
This green room is my home, yours too,
where we dress in shades to impress
our lives redress.
Are we actors then, pure and plain?
Without wit, we pirouette
in someone else’s domain.
Poet’s Notes: I recently produced a play. Watching the actors and their professional detachment as they laugh and cry on cue always makes me think. Isn’t life a green room too? And are we all not waiting for our spotlight so we can play our parts?
Editor’s Note: Yes, the world's a stage. Aparna’s conceit is hardly new, but I do enjoy her unique spin on it, and the message bears repeating.