The humans are out there taking their bows in the light where the world can see.
We are piled up,
cold and immobile on the floor as the green room light fills
Up our empty button eyes.
Our cardboard frames listen closely to the aching theater walls,
And to the chandelier,
Tired of holding its own weight.
We may not be destroyed.
Perhaps we will be kept in a room, overcome with mildew and moon:
Still folded over,
Still Bowing
Old shadows break in the brand new walls
The dirt projected by the naked winter giants of trees
Stains bare wooden flesh with familiar rusty bandages
Kid sitting at the edge of a dock.
Legs swinging in free fall.
Wood scrapes into his hands.
He thinks that the stars can talk to him.
Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
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