After the Theatre
Vacating your seat, you too
can make language move:
so, elbowing to the exit
is the camaraderie of culture,
your carriage waits in the stack,
concrete pillars are Corinthian columns,
and driving up the greasy ramp,
an exhilarating surge of metaphor.
In the side-streets of reality,
you devastatingly refute Eliot:
it’s all architectured down to size;
the sky’s a renaissance ceiling
you could easily paint on your back,
to one of Mozart’s greatest hits.
Oh, the puddled swish of driving home
in the rain, beside yourself with optimism,
finding all these original thoughts
weaving through the slums,
like beauty in rained-on mascara!
And reaching home, how can you not
admire the castle of your own routine
that is better than no slippers and
no cooking-for-one-smells in the right place
with the photographs at your bedside,
to remind you you won’t be alone
in the bed you’ve made properly
for your fierce contentment?
Clearly, you’ve left Uncle Vanya sobbing
back at the theatre, and quite understandably,
you’ve forgotten why he was.