the old theater

the rambles and shambles
and wadded up bundles of nerves
deep within my bowels
they rise into my chest
breathe in
and out
feel your pulse
if what you feel is cold
and blank
there are no choices left
only wilted daisies on the dressing room floor
and the lingering smell of second winds
caught between acts
missed entrances and lovely lunches
on the grass by the crick
this and that and then and when
before there was this, there was that
and it was good
but trading good for great
is impossible
when great means pain and broken promises
exchanged under blankets and behind walls of shame
long after this light cools
into perpetual sunset
and we live between two days
for the rest of our lives
the old theater will stand
and anyone who visits it
above the music and ovations
between the whiffs of coffee and sawdust
will smell us
and hear us
and know that this building bred something
better than good
and almost great.