His Show Must Go On

I have relinquished my stage; content now to be a silent audience watching myself. I observe that garmented voice as it feed words into digital fonts watch it act-out in a dimly lit theater, a small auditorium yet it reaches far. Occasionally this jobbing actor glances my way suspecting he is being watched, he may take a bow in my general direction. or clear his throat, as if apologizing for an under-rehearsed performance. It’s just as well he cannot see my face. If I were not there to listen who would be so understanding or patient? Metaphorically speaking, who would sweep the stage, turn off the lights, then write a play or plot for the next time that voice needed to play its part?