I tie the cape around my neck, and snap on my gloves like a surgeon,
I am no doctor, but a physician of mirrors.
“Climb into the box and hand me the saw”
I paint my face with the chalk of the actresses,
Reconstructing the smile of a clown.
I tighten my bowtie
Like the personified noose of stage fright
Creeping its evil cords across my esophagus.
“Wait for my cue, do not ruin this for me”
“Our dinner money depends on the joy of the audience”
“Our clothes depend upon illision”
My black and white stick is my wand,
Rather than balloons only lies come from its tip.
I feed off of the laughter and joy of others.
There is no time for my own sadness for the show has already begun.
“Put the apple on your head and remember posture”
“We have practiced this for years”
The curtain slams and brushes my nose,
My assistant grabs a cigarrette.
In our home we are misfits.
On stage we are dreams put to form.
“Give me a hand and help me carry the rabbits”
“Let’s get some sleep, tomorrow is another day”
“Tomorrow is another trick of mirrors”
I am no doctor.
But a physician of mirrors.