Don't Under Think It

The Actor

The Actor

We sat together, the actor and I;

A mauve blanket, the Melbourne sky;

I spoke about Chekhov’s central theme;

Dirges for a life that had gone unseen;

I told him it scared me to consider the fate;

Of a life sold not spent; a life gone to waste;

The actor stayed silent while I gave my soliloquy;

Nodding occasionally, perhaps just to humor me;

Had he heard it before? The actor I mean;

Were we walking a path where he’d already been?

So I looked to the actor and asked what he thought;

He said, “I agree with you wholly, you must chart your own course”

And again came the feeling that he’d been here before;

That he’d had all these feelings that he’d thought the same thoughts;

White clouds sailed above us; in the mauve Melbourne sky;

And the actor looked upwards and gave a short sigh;

“To me the clouds ebb they no longer flow;”

“To me the stars fade rather than glow;”

This from a man who’d lived such a life;

That fate was his mistress; it was not his wife;

It was not there every morning, sharing his bed;

But he could call it at leisure, to come stroke his head;

And it was then that I realized, the cliché is true;

The grass is never greener when it’s under our shoe;

And just as the clouds will both ebb and flow;

We’ll find ourselves asking: “where did my life go?”

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