WALKOUT 3, ACTOR

               At last the place is mine,

                            but self is same

genetic faults have not been sold, bought,  

            mortgaged and redeemed.

Some pin-prick conjured wrong persuades me

to let in that old throbbing riot

through the ever open door of injured 

               Pride.

Some puny niggle, nurtured lovingly:

I nourish, spoil and manure my creation

                   with care and concentration.  

        With care and concentration

  this hurt assumes reality but is just virtual.

The temper is hollow, the tantrums

                      symbolic;

and all in silence; the false screams

                      ricochet

around the newly papered rooms,

          and then drop, spent and tame on the 

                             hoovered wall-to-wall.

    These thin shadows of emotion then demand

     orchestrated energy to drum up feeling

                   that just might produce

                          a plastic container

                          bouncing off a fitted cupboard.

               Staged and no danger:

 the object durable, the propulsion unimpulsive,

totally unimpressive.

   Faint imitation of historic exits.

A short step into an unwild garden

to politely chuck a question at the 

                stars;

but perceptive, they are not inclined

                to answer.

        The return this time is not in failure but

               in keeping with the whole gesture

        How can there be any return

            when I have never gone away?

.