Deanna Swain
The Director
Imagination teaches me to exhale Apollo.
Open curtains reveal a colorful cast:
The Believers Tribe of Inspiration.
Free like gypsies, we volunteer our naked voices
to an ampitheater of hungry souls
who crave more than mime and popcorn.
Suddenly, I am within a blinding spotlight.
The blank faces disappear into the rhythm
of the applause, which pulses my heart.
Faith keeps me company as the curtain closes.
The autographs I sign are scribbles without merit.
Fame belongs to Sweet Poetry, but she will not bow.