The Twilight Performer

He came to the village as twilight touched porches,
With the streets warmly lit by flickering torches.
Eyes followed with him as he hobble-danced down the street
Drawing wide grins from the gazes he’d meet.

Old Theold the Performer had arrived once again,
for coppers a day and bottomless gin.
The juggler, the joker, the singer of glories,
With his lopsided limp, and his vagabond stories.

He would eat well, sleep well, in a bed safe and warm
Then the next day at sunset he’d prepare to perform.
He’d hum and hack, roll his tongue, and flap lips,
Then dress in fine fabrics worn through with wide rips.

Over his chin’s deep folds, across his face with panache,
He’d paint pigeon poo, round his eyes he’d smear ash.
His lips he made red; a spill of cheap wine,
Then in the town square at night’s edge he’d opine.

Once he had acted in Trollope’s troupe, many say;
The greatest actors, poets, and performers of their day.
Nobody spoke of how he’d long ago been cut
When the eye of his memory had gradually shut.

But the classics he knew, in his soul they were fixed,
Though he’d blend them together in a ponderous mix.
None of the townsfolk spoke of Theold’s mistakes,
Nor did they comment upon his tremors and shakes.

With the Bard and Wordsworth he’d pepper some Chaucer
And the gathering crowds were like cats to a saucer.
Sometimes he’d stutter and stare for long spells
Then of murder, romance, or betrayal he’d tell.

One speech above all he could reliably recite,
It was Old Hamlet’s Ghost on a cold, haunted night.
In poetry he spoke of incest and poisoned ears
The flow of his words peeling back the long years.

His voice began with thunder, then in a whisper it did dance.
Putting the pressing throng into a wide-eyed trance.
At his last throaty words remember me, a tear grew,
And drew a line down his face, through ash and bird-poo.

He said he would walk to London to reclaim his love, the stage.
They would take him back, he was certain, despite his advancing age.
He’d show Trollope and troupe there was greatness in him yet.
The townsfolk used to inform him, though he’d immediately forget,

That in 1703 Trollope died and the troupe disbanded.
But folk now let him believe, rather than be heavy-handed.
“One performance,” he assured them all, “is more than I would need.
I could never deign on bended knee to grovel or to plead.”

Then off he wobbled on uncertain legs, headed in the wrong direction,
Not a soul spoke up or lifted a hand to offer him correction.
For weeks thereafter folks did echo old Theold’s tarnished tongue,
Retelling jumbled jokes and re-singing what he’d sung.

Sure, of the Twilight Performer they occasionally made fun,
But all hoped he’d meander back before his performing was done.