They go to bed with the wolf,
the poster boy,
the name on everyone's lips,
and they wake up with the pup,
the post-it note,
the machinery behind the stage exposed.

They go out with the galavanter,
the cocksure singer,
the writer,
the soldier,
and they take the taxi home with the waiter,
the narcissist,
the diarist,
the downer.

They fall in love with the mirror,
the player,
the idea carried out across the halls.
Then they weep in the bathroom
and leave at the interval
when first the lights go up.

They spend the weeks after asking,
what changed,
what happened,
why is it so different now?
He doesn't have the heart to explain,
to reveal the trick,
to acknowledge.

Just up and down
like a fucking clown.