by John Grey
I’m the only one
in the movie theater
on a Wednesday afternoon.
The projection light shines
eerily above me.
The last piece of popcorn
settles down somewhere in my stomach.
An empty soda cup
sits in the slot provided.
I could talk back to the actors
and no one would complain.
Or even pull out my cell-phone,
carry on loud conversations
with everybody I know.
Or change seats on the quarter hour.
Or, half way through the movie,
tell myself out loud
how the whole thing ends.
But instead, I keep still and quiet,
eyes held hostage
by the image before me.
Then, it’s all over
and I leave the theater,
back into the brightness,
the crowds, the strangers.
A mother is dragging
her screaming kids around.
A young woman stares wistfully
in a shop window.
An old man sinks into a massage chair.
Teenagers gather in the food court.
It’s all a movie to me.
And, once again,
I’m an audience of one.
Pegasus 