The magic is gone on
the other side of the curtain.
Surrounded by inexplicit nudity,
sweaty bodies with gaudy makeup
carrying cheap plastic wine glasses.
The ancient chugging motor
rests behind the backdrop
waiting
for the right moment to expel
the battered mechanical platforms
that create the fantastic finale staircase
in an explosion of lights, music, and tap shoes.
The characters disappear at the edge
of the stage, and are replaced with
gossiping groups.
Who jumped the sexuality line?
Who will next?
Is RJ single
again?
Which cute girl on McCain’s staff
is available, so I can hit on her?
I catch a glimpse of the audience
beyond the cliff that drops
to the depths of the orchestra pit,
completely immersed in the story
only found on
the other side of the curtain.
