A character in my play
climbed down the stage,
came directly to me,
and took a chair next to me.

I was looking at the play,
he was looking at me.
His looks, like arrows,
pierced my heart.

If I shifted my legs
so that they should not touch his,
his legs wantonly brushed mine.
His hands fell heavily on my shoulder.

When the audience was silent
he burst out in laughter.
When he clapped, it was unnecessary.
All eyes were on him
and his were on me.

It was not just right.
I stood up and walked out.
He followed me.

As I opened the door
he went in before me.

Smiling a familiar smile
he stood–a mirror before me.

Why do these so many characters,
educated by me in civility,
behave like this?

1993