The Night Before the Curtain

Marin Morgen

It’s the night before the curtain, every echo has died down;
A stage half-set with storefronts half-approximates a town.
The house lights paint the street as flat, the sky as plaster wall-
The eyes of mortals ought not see these shadows as they fall.

And yet on tape starred streets, a pair of rough and dusty shoes
Take slow and careful saintly steps, led by unwritten cues.
As Comedy and Tragedy behold the stranger’s face
And on the lifeless street appears the Maker of this place.

Tomorrow night the cast and crew will fill creation’s veins,
And speak the lines that pump the heart and sing the soul’s refrains.
But for tonight the Maker sees, through old half-dreaming eyes:
The city’s sleeping form beneath a pall of silence lies.

Prometheus’ fennel, Galatea’s static form,
The muffled stillness of the air before the rising storm,
The work of mortal hands, to live and breathe for just three shows,
Then down it comes, in minutes, and like that, the magic goes.

His hands are those of masons, blacksmiths, carpenters, and more,
But no one looks at scenery, like no one hears the score.
But now he sees his handiwork beneath the amber lights
And knows he’s built entire worlds, if only for three nights.