Sometimes I dream in black and white, shades of gray, 
theater of sleep inspired by early cinema. Eyelid movies 
worthy of Saturday matinee unspool screenplays of imagination, 
produced, directed and acted by memory.  

Characters defined by line and shadow perform in flickering
landscapes painted with winter light. EXIT signs compete
for stardom. Crackling echoes radiate from paper speakers;
a stuttering projector adds its own soundtrack.

Horsehair seat cushions, dented and perfumed
by a thousand buttocks hover above wool carpet saturated
with Coca Cola, ice cream, butter. Fur of dust on curtains, thick
as rolling wheat, frames a rumpled screen, stained and torn.

Foul draft from the lobby carries whiffs of week-old hot dogs, 
burned popcorn, urine and Pine-Sol restrooms. Ushers 
pointing fingers of flashlight at unruly guests, breaking 
up lovers in the balcony, alert me to dawn.  

Tickets for tomorrow’s movie available at the box office.