I sleep, and my life slinks away from my fame,
as if, embarrassed by my daylight magnitude,
I wait for a safe dark to make modifications;
new roles, new vocabulary, new gestures,
new plot to stage in the absurd theater of night.
Some mornings I wake up,
my tap dance shoes scuffed,
a buffalo loose in the kitchen,
a woman holding her clothes,
another holding a book open to page 33,
and me with my sequined shirt half buttoned,
or half unbuttoned.
Was I putting a new costume on,
or taking an old costume off?
In the daylight hours I don’t mind being me.
I’ve gotten used to the character who shows up
when I hear my name called.
But at night I get much needed relief
from my off-the-rack customary self,
the one friends say ‘hi’ to when we meet,
the one my wife kisses at bed time,
the one my daughters call Dad on Father’s Day.
The night selves I have dreamed
would cost a lot of money in real life:
wardrobe changes, set building, props,
accent coaches, agents, lawyer’s fees.
After midnight I don’t need the money.
I dream on a budget.