A ghost light is a single bulb left burning

whenever a theatre is dark - playbill.com

Her father —as he had been before

the pains wore down his sense of humor—

steps out from the wings, stage left,

through velvet curtains drifting dust.

He balances a silvery tray glinting

in the spotlight, on which teeters

a cut-glass decanter, crystal glasses.

Folks in the audience, quiet except

for the crinkle of a single cough drop wrapper,

lean their heads forward like cattle

companiable in a feed lot, listening.

On stage, her father delivers a line

and briefly locks eyes with a woman

in the first row of the balcony.

She clutches her program, holds her breath

in the long pause before the punchline.

On the catwalk above, the light tech manhandles

the spot, mouths the lines then silently laughs.

The play ends. The audience gathers their wraps.

They murmur, depart with backward glances.

The woman in the balcony rises, softly clapping.