The Theatre Workshop
By Charlotte Chalkley
Not far from my house there lies
A strange, empty – perhaps – warehouse of sorts;
Down the scuffed sidewalk, it shows
Only a bland, unassuming white face, cracked in places –
Four clouded windows, no wider than
a curious face, pressed close
But all the reserved facade will reveal
Is a dusty rocking horse on the sill
and a stack of uneven wooden frames
But on certain dreary afternoons
The quiet revolution of minds and hands
Overspills its bounds to the sleepy neighbourhood around
Look closer and you’ll see –
around the corner a little black door
where, day and night, strange figures mingle:
a man in a feathered hat strides out;
furtive shadows haul in weighty sacks
Come by in a few months and see it all change –
the wooden pieces long gone, replaced
by another jumble of curious treasures.
Unchanged: only the patient rocking horse
awaiting, on the sill,
the crowds, the lights, the ovation
