for Jean-Paul Sartre
Exits are entrances - so actors tell -
To a space which they create
To make the watchers feel
The unseen is just as real
As the time their characters wait
In a room they know too well.
What is clear, however,
Within the double door
And seated on divans
Of ill-assorted colour
A knife absurdly left
Upon the wooden floor
Is that they cleave
To one another
They dare not peer into the hall
From their space without a mirror
For fear what might befall
If they should leave
They use their eyes to picture
What each wants not to see
And so remain alone
Unable to atone
Or flee the common hell
They make there for each other.
©Terry Hodgson2020
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