He spoke his lines slowly, his face was a mask,

Until the heart attack took him, dead on cue,

Then all the veils of his trade dropped from him

As he fell ashenly, in the rain, in a moment of pain.

In the small city garden the children are busy

Making scent from flowers and weeds and water

Waiting to be called in to wash their dirty faces,

Brush their teeth and tumble into crumpled beds.