By BernardYoung

The Good Old Days

There’d always be a group
of loyal fans waiting outside the Stage Door
when he left the theatre. Encore! Encore!
More! More! still ringing in his ears.
My god! Some of them were frightfully young.
Impressionable. He’d often take one back with him.
Boy or girl, depending on his whim.
The hotel staff knew to turn a blind eye.

The world was his oyster
and all the world his stage.
You didn’t ask their age
back then.

Times have changed
and the fame has gone
and some of the theatres
whose boards he trod upon
have been pulled down.

And so what has he become
in the eyes of the public,
he asks himself.  A fossil?
A dirty old man?
A relic from a different age?

He could easily rage at the injustice of it all
but every time there’s a knock on his door
he calms himself, throws back
his shoulders, stands up straight,
and prepares to act the innocent.

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