miscast

maybe I'm merely a projection in a black & white cinema - 
moved by concealed machinery I wade through manifold shades of gray,
dragged from frame to frame I dissolve in pixels and shadowplay,
unfolding in small beginnings and endings
before each evening's new listless audience.

and from my high-angle shots
I can tell the precise shades on their faces
or measure the seconds between their finger twitches,
as they distantly assess the semblance of my acting
or absently dwell upon their daily matters.

from time to time I try to spite the director's composition,
so I fix a face and attempt a subtle grimace,
hit my shoe to the floor
or alter my voice tone,
yet each time they remain aloof and disconnected,
tapping their feet,
holding other hands
or checking their watches,
while I'm rushed by lines and gestures which I have not chosen
or swiftly abscond dislodged by tour de force characters.

then, with each evening's denouement,
freeze-frame, I watch them grab their coats and leave their seats,
as, one by one, they dispatch my fleeting performance
to redeem thoughts of events, friends or lovers,
while I remain shut down behind the aged screen,
watching crumbs of ashes cover the empty seats
and waiting for some stranger's hand
to appear and trigger my machines
so I can begin and end one more evening.