Outside our bedroom, actors cluster
on a terrace rehearsing cues.
Garbed in Renaissance gowns, the players
recite their lines in iambs, trochees.
A couple sleeps under the balustrade.
From the tower a crimson banner drops.
Our family cracks open its own stage
while thieves steal loaves of day-old bread.
* * *
Stuart and I catch a ride
to watch more plays in the Loop. We’re backseat
driving. In front: two producers, beside
an aging actress, sit straight like eggs in a carton.
The star says, “Stop
at that diner, Salt ’n Pepper.” She demands
the car exits Lake Shore Drive. We question,
when can we bolt to catch the Brown Line
back to Wellington?
Stripes through slats wake us up.
A pair, stage right, enters. Stephen raids
the bed while Alexandra, nonchalant,
stands framed inside the bedroom door.