THE LAST ACT

 

THE LAST ACT

 

During the last act, where I’ve no line to speak
But only a final squeak to make
And a pose to assume,
Which they aptly call the pose of the dead,
The son has to behave one way,
And the daughter in a different way.

It’s all an act, though they mayn’t know it:
My final jerks (a jerk I’ve always been),
The tears, the cries, the curses, and the recalls with regrets,
Are all an act befitting the farewell scene.
The son, the stoic, though, won’t cry as he is a man;
The daughter, the wimp, will, of course, as befitting her role.

If my son were daughter, and daughter son,
The scene would unfold the same way—
Stereotypically.

Poor souls, they don’t know
Even in feelings they are brainwashed
By tradition,

Literature,

Culture,

 And movies.

 

Who’d tell these idiots that most lives are cliches
Played out unwittingly by innumerable actors!