Scaramouche in the Park Aging and drunk, the actor sits in the park As all around the visitors feed the doves And ignore the masked zanni, escaped on a lark From commedia dell’arte’s quarrels and loves. The shadows grow long; the crows and squirrels flee To await the morrow’s mid-morning crumbs and nuts. And as the dusk creeps in ‘twixt twisting trees, The actor sits and kicks at cigarette butts. Back on the stage, he is neither missed nor sought, As scene into scene fades and springs anew. While loves are won and fearsome battles fought, The actor sits in silence and gathers dew. This is the joke, that God did write the script - And from this play our souls are messily ripped. copyright 26 August 2000 by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw; Chattanooga.