(for Martha Kight)

Good heavens, we’re old enough to play Juliet’s
nurse, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you have,

though, really, anyone over, say, 30 could do it,
since Juliet’s supposed to be all of—what?—13,

about to be 14 on Lammas Eve, which turns out
to be on July 31st, the day after my birthday,

the most recent of which landed me squarely
at 67. Which you are, too, I believe. You, the singer

I watched from my spot in the orchestra pit
at every high school musical. You who tucked

theater into your bag of beloveds, even if it required
a different day job. I know that it’s always been

your primary love, you who have played parts
from ingenue to grandma, whose voice I’ll happily

listen to in any role. I’m no actor, and I no longer
remember enough Shakespeare to pronounce it

trippingly on the tongue. But I’m sure that you do,
my friend, who has given so much heart to the stage.

So should you decide to give the Bard another go,
know that I’ll be one of the groundlings

applauding like mad, cheering “Brava!” for you.