Solo Acts
Those who leave their lives
folded neatly, who step gently
into the still siesta of self,
imagine a blindfold
binding the eyes, muslin, say,
through which the world
will be dimly visible,
while they'll look like actors.
Fiction is different:
the streets are choc-a
with solo performers, juggling
identities like apples,
and all have an aura,
vaguely thermal, by which
they recognise each other.
They pause on pavements,
in passages, aisles, glowing
with shocked excitement,
showing you words, their own,
which you thought you'd invented.