Busses of school children were brought in
for this onetime only performance.
They fidget dispassionately while scenery is changed
and sigh at melancholy puns concerning destiny.
Old Hat, the nameless barker, robs my pocket watch
while clouds of midget clowns circulate like cancerous lymph.
Off stage, in the wings, under the proscenium,
playwrights crawl in slow, tightening circles, stunned.
Who ordered the cake for the opening night party?
It's made of sugar syrup and comet ice.
Celebrities shake hands and wipe candy canes from their lips,
each eyeing the other for signs of recognition or fallibility.
What is my name on such an evening?
It cannot be the same as that of the ticket taker,
who uses gravity assist to propel his eyes
from their sockets and then on to other worlds.
Filing out, there is heated discussion concerning meaning.
Pale academics deconstruct into shimmering vapors,
and the biting night air licks our faces
as we emerge once more beneath the stars.