Days go on and on,

my head rattles and my clothes are changed.

Inanimate hands permanently stiffened

along with eyes never to blink.

But I do see—

every show,

every costume change,

every lovers embrace and break.

 

Generations of playing in the Little Ryan space,

sometimes even taking part.

Mostly just behind set for actors and crew to hug and joke with.

 

I’m not breathing,

I can't move,

I haven't the smallest bodily function,

but I comfort. 

 

The stage isn't alive, but it is.

The characters don't exist, but they do.