The Goodfellas

A star’s light reaches the observer’s gaze

and suddenly it has purpose for its shine.

Three men gather on a stage, glimmering

brilliance: Di Niro, Pesci, Imperioli.

I am, as I always am for them,

the invisible spectator.

They perform monologues, spoken over each other,

demonstrating the extraordinary talent

contained in their bodies.

Imperioli and Di Niro lock eyes, riffing, gracefully

bouncing balls of energy between each other.

A beautiful momentum

builds as they circle the stage. Ecstasy

born from perfect chemistry, expelling

their warmth and joy!

At completion they stand face-to-face,

breathless and beaming in their

spontaneous spell.

From the shadows comes a New Jersy wail,

“Uh, hello! Pesci here! I got some lines too, you know!”

He emerges, face panic stricken and smiling, as if

he is about to ask if you think he's funny,

Pesci cuts the space like a harsh fluorescent bulb.

I am embarrassed by his insecurity.

I want to bask between the sun and the moon, remain

entranced by the controlling forces of day and night.

Helpless are we, the passive observers of light.