They mill in, a defunct Caliban and Ariel,
prop the bar and lean wearily
in our direction. “You were great,” I say,
“Were the false teeth anything
to do with that stutter, or was it
No-one lights up which is a pity
because such silence could kill lesser men.
“You’re a dope,” says Caliban
though I notice the paunch
and eyes strung out from footlights’ overdose.
Ariel is even thinner on the ground
but making headway through his Guinness
which he tells us improves a fairy’s lot
on having to sing etceteras of
“Where the bee sucks …”
More actors now and the air is thick
with cracks about agents
and Prospero’s farting at sea.
I mouth to Caliban again,
“What about those false teeth?”
and wish I hadn’t.
A whole Shakespearian bar is looking at me.
Gratefully received from Celia for our Big Lit 2020 Window Poems