THE SELF

Solo

Do you ever wish
There were someone else in the wings
To hand you your wig?
Another soul waiting on stage?
Someone to ‘play off of?’
Cast, crew, ensemble, corps de anyone?
Is it lonely in the deep stretches of morning?
Or is that the exact WHY of where we are?

At four a.m., I’m a solitary player in endless monologue;
Eternal soliloquy; an unaccompanied soloist with no choir,
Dancing alone on a wind of words;
Who never wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
I choose the silence,
The hush,
The glorious,
Golden sound
Of no applause . . . .

©Edwina Peterson Cross