Lines

Chatting backstage,
a castmate and I
compare our mothers’ ages,
both coming on 80.
Mine is 30 years older than me;
she recalls feeling embarrassed
to be the oldest mother on the maternity ward

Tonight I play a man a dozen years older than me;
last year this time,
I played a man 20 years younger.
When I get home after the show
I wipe off the lines, the shadowing,
rinse out the gray from my hair

Under the fake lines
I find real ones growing
fields furrowed by invisible plows
gray at the temples
that doesn’t rinse out

Age seems more fluid
but time is rushing now
a relentless pace
almost a roar in the ears

Tomorrow night
I’ll sample my future
once again,

draw on dark lines
over the ones

that don’t come off.