Curtain.

The thing about theatre is it goes away.
Pretty quick.
There's nothing to touch.

Happens nightly.
For a few weeks.
Then puffs out.

Arrived three minutes late to a ballroom on Ravenswood and Irving Park.
Ate a blueberry muffin on the floor.

Sacheted awkwardly to Shania Twain.
Sang.
Tapped.
Improved.
Secured new lines concerning gender, Hathaway, sex, competition, and so on.

And so on and in his Honda he was out there a waiting,
and staring
and leaning
Chinese dumplings in hand.
Winter coat a gape


And so on,
chariots
and lots of thick skin and lots of settled dust and lots of perfect toast.