We scale the wall at night,
the little left of a jug
of driest Zinfandel
in the satchel on my back.
Shards of streetlight
pierce the empty rows of seats.
Back and forth you weave,
undecided Choragus,
singing to the faint street noise
rising behind the skene:
Love him. Love him not.
Strophe. Antistrophe.
In the dim light, that mask,
your face, might be tragic
or comic—I’ve never known.
Tripping towards me,
you kick the wine
and we watch the bottle skitter,
chiming, down the aisle,
then rest, finally, in the pit.
The hewn-stone stage is bare.
Let the pageant begin.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
