Stooge

Poems don't always come fully formed. For what it was worth, this was hard work, going through different shapes and sizes and several edits before scraping through to this version. One begins to wonder if the initial idea is really worthy of pursuing.
I'm hoping it will now suffice without making any oversize claims for it. But it was long overdue that a poem appeared on this page.

Stooge

Halfway through the act I am brought on stage
where I have been a hundred times before
in towns like this, to earn my meagre wage.
And I don’t want to do it anymore.
The audience seem to think it's comedy
and they have paid and want their money’s worth.
It no longer means anything to me.
I’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

I wish I’d been a shopkeeper and sold
commodities to customers I’d chat
to, relaxed, as if I knew them as friends.
But I’m in this dilapidated, old
playhouse, still repeating the same old hat,
my life postponed in permanent pretend.