The theater echoes
the scenes been played
a thousand times the same.

A yellowing script lying there,
alabaster walls sullied, cracked but standing.
Its burgundy floor boards lie split,
the ebony wood stained by age.

And upon the stage,
Its trappings of the familiar,
Yet, in itself barren.
Nothing to do,
but wait.

How incredible! It too, must wait.
For its puppets
of plaster, wood and glass
to play the scene
yet, again.

November 14, 1970
 By Linda A. Copp ©