An Imitation of Love

That's all it is, I tell you truly.
The kettledrum rumbles, the curtain goes up,
And all too soon, the play is over.
You glance at the program in reflection.
You recite the numbers in your mind,
Each routine a minor masterpiece; but already
Criticism starts to creep in.
A sour note in the aria. The intermezzo's stridency.
And the lullaby? Interminable.
But then I think: the genuine article
Is much the same, with shoddier costumes,
Less opulent sets, and poorer lighting.
When everyday life and stagecraft mix,
The magic's revealed to be as mundane
As a factory floor. The mellifluous voices?
A calliope shrieking. And there are no reviews
In the morning paper, just the same old news
In black-and-white format,
With ink dripping down to harshen the coffee,
And a thin, crusty slice of stale bread.