Broadway
There are people behind the curtains.
Stiff, steel toed shoes in leather.
Musty breath from hiding velvet
bites of purple passion.
There are rows of audience seats.
Empty, moth eaten pillows and such.
Reclining without weight or body
in hollows of past attention.
There are players.
Pastel faces, too much makeup.
Dress rehearsals as butterflies
tied to hanging wires.
There are robot ticket takers.
Painted smiles and polyester.
Heat in uniforms and patent leather
constantly raw in their finger prints.
There are nights to open.
Nights to close.
Songs to sing.
Bows to take.
Applause to ring.
Encores to break...
and always the occasional rotten tomato...
It's this cycle - of life on life actors
and watchers and players and gawkers
and takers of passes to sit unbemused,
which push at the hands of the clock on Times Square,
speeding attention to holding despair,
on a wintering blizzard,
a heat wave, a hurricane,
a moment to play insane,
all in the arms of Broadway.
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