Sold Poem by Les Littleford

I knew the plot.
I had read it
studied it
taught it.

I looked forward to another production,
a different interpretation.

I knew of Willy’s failures,
his self deceit,
his philandering.
Of Linda’s stubborn faithfulness,
Biff’s final stand.

And the eventual tragic,
pointless,
Death of a Salesman

It held no surprises for me.

And then,
as unexpected as any Houdini escape,
as surprising as the deftest sleight of hand,
more mesmerising than the most intricate illusion

I was gripped
pulse racing,
fighting back tears,
emotions in disarray.

It was the sheer
raw
simple
magic
of theatre.