On Dixwell Ave.
Twenty-five cents to the lady
imprisoned in the glassed-in ticket booth
before we entered the theatre already darkened
groping our way down the stairs to the chosen aisle
to folding chairs
that threatened to swallow
small children in their cushioned maws
and before we sat being reminded not to lean
our heads on the seat backs or we might get ringworm.
 
Eyes slowly getting
used to the obliteration of all
things visible and relieved when
someone’s head did not obstruct our view
or if not, having to shift from side to side to see.
 
Sticky floors that
lifted our feet right out of our Keds
so we sat cross-legged with a bucket of popcorn
between us and fought for the best of the salty fluid-gold
soaking the last kernels; munching Jujyfruits that stuck in our teeth for hours;
Double Bubble Gum that lost its flavor too soon.
 
At last the dimmed
theatre lights faded to pitch black
and the maroon curtains parted: newsreels,
Tom and Jerry then the MGM magical opening reprise
me already mesmerized, until Dorothy walked through the door
of her sepia-tinted house and landed in Technicolor Munchkinland
 
to find the same beloved house
but under it the Wicked Witch of the East
whose stockinged feet shod in red pointy shoes would,
unknown to me, soon be Dorothy’s fateful ruby red slippers.
I remember my gasp, perhaps audible, catching in my throat.
 
I ingloriously left
pushing away the legs in our aisle with the
“Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead” following me as I ran
out into the stark peak of the afternoon sun my eyes squinting
directly up into that glorious glorious burning light
and ever so grateful to return to reality!

© by Carol Amato.
Used here with the author’s permission.