The Distance of Applause

The stage lights are hungry. They swallow the floor

and turn the boy’s eyes into glass or a stone.

He speaks to the dark, to the back of the door,

with a voice that sounds solid and strange and alone.

He’s perfect. The lines are all crisp in his mouth.

He bows to the noise of a hundred wet hands.

I’m watching the weather of him moving south,

toward a life where he finally and fully commands.

And I’m terrified now, in the velvet and dust,

because he didn't look back to see if I’d stayed.

He’s earned all the glory, and if I am just,

I’ll admit that it’s me who is suddenly frayed.