It was exciting then. Buying a new make-up box-
full of age-tones brown in their spools like cake-
different lunacies- eyes of peppermint,
shadows deep as aquamarine- blue nose:
now there's just the box, ready to take to another house.
The acting work dried up years ago
and you wouldn't go out to a cow drenched field
with more stool than audience heads now
and the smell, and the horseflies
and Shakespeare mixing with the clouds
and rising stars. Now the box
waits to be packed. Hope is not lost
the row of ageing bit parts rattle
in their spools- waiting- as they become
less and less necessary. One more role
off stage- playing the husband, or the phone
receptionist- always sweet, always a kind word
when the tongue is curling like a leaf
withering and the ears turn red as an iron rim on a stove:
no more low cash gigs in Idaho,
no more buying make-up boxes all new
no more age colours bought in start of season twos-
only a brush now to wash eye-lids and the comb
that takes the hairs out one by one
and leaves them beside the mirror
not lit by bulbs that will go out
but by the stars that fall into a baby bath
and will grow into something maybe someday comes
a girl that will play Juliet and laugh
and say “My Daddy gave me that.”

and close the lid on all those tiny hearts.