I'm
here
waiting
on the grid
high above the stage
while down there they are rehearsing.
My son the director with his two budding actors.
The set is plain white stark lit bright there's a bare branch for a tree and I think a park bench.
I'm the theatrical dad of a minimalist
Waiting for Godot
Beckett's play
gives me
stage
fright
Am
I
waiting
for Godot
up here with the lights
a Father Zeus sans thunder bolts
looking at my creation unsure of its meaning?
How did my child become this confident young man giving existentialist stage notes?
Was it something I said when he was only knee high?
Why are we here? Did he ask that?
If there's a reason
it's my son.
Godot
can
wait
