Enter Shylock

He’s become so annoyed by the title
he no longer says it in conversation.
Instead he talks about “the show”
and hopes no one notices.
But it’s his play. Google his name,
then any of the other characters.
People wait for his entrance.
It’s him they come to see,

although, to be fair,
maybe the woman too
who has the great bit with the boxes.

So, if not Shylock, call it
Shylock and Portia. After all,
they own the courtroom scene.
They dominate the posters.
They get the marquee billing.
Who gives a damn about
what’s his name. Antonio.
A nobody
and the playwright knew it.
So, at best, the title’s puzzling;
at worst a failure of nerve,
a lack of imagination,
or just the act of a prick
who won’t give credit
where it’s due.

But it’s blasphemy he knows
to criticize
The Bard.
He might as well spit on a Bible,
so he bites his tongue and mouths
his appreciation of the part.
Laughing or crying
isn’t going to change the fact
he’s not the merchant,
but the merchandise
to be cut up each night and fed
to a ravenous, merciless, audience.