Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar

Carrie Shipers

                                                                 Lincoln, Neb., 2009

That man’s too old to play Christ, someone said

when you appeared onstage—thirty years

in those white robes, spotlights tracking

your graceful sleeves, the attentive angle

of your head as you worked a crowd. I agreed

that you looked tired, but when Mary Magdalene

anointed you, when you cast merchants

and money changers from the temple, I forgot

your thinning hair and wrinkled brow, forgot

how your story ended: your broken voice

crying on the cross, your body arched as you

ascended. I’d lost track of how many songs

were in the second act, thought there might

be more—the empty tomb, your appearance

on the road, to Peter in Jerusalem—but the cast

came out for applause: soldiers, Apostles,

and women; Annas, Caiaphas, Pilate; Mary

in her red dress; Peter, that sturdy fisherman;

Judas, who has all the best songs; and finally

you, head bowed at our ovation. I didn’t come

to worship but you’ve left me no choice—

I don’t care how old you are, how many times

you’ve done this act before—you still rock

those power ballads, still heal with the same

sweet force before you rise. We’ll always want

too much from you. Tonight, I’ll believe until

the curtain closes, your tour bus rolls away.