Herded into the narrow aisles,
I can’t help thinking of the Fox-Bay theater
on long Saturday afternoons;
the high school kids in burgundy blazers
ushering us into the hushed generous darkness
smelling of spilled popcorn
and thrumming with the promise
of a double feature, permission
to empty our boxes of Milk Duds
and Jujubes, our Good & Plenty
and tall cups of Hi-C,
the dark velvet drapery rolling open,
manuvered by careful, invisible hands,
while far away on the walls, the relief sculptures
of gnarled, windswept trees,
cliffs where a heroine might perch
awaiting her story. 


From We Lit the Lamps Ourselves (Salmon Poetry).
Used with the author’s permission.