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Gasping at the West End
Each night
we slip into that curtained world
theater for an audience of one
like embryos in soft-feathered eggs
Acts follow one another
pages torn from different scripts
In one, we’re in a princess’s entourage
touring the alleys of her medieval world
where bustling bazaars echo fanfares
hints of incense, gold and silver
mingle across our eggshell screens
Suddenly without an intermission
we’re in a dentist’s chair, where he
and his midget brother take turns
wrenching our teeth with some
hideous blunt instrument
Then we’re lazing on a chaise longue
with some quite unidentifiable character
of the opposite sex who slowly gets
undressed and kisses the inside
of our eyelids
And as we strain to recognize this person
whom we know we should know
but we don’t, disappearing now in a wisp
of a thousand scented nights
so close yet so distant, as we reach out
to touch – the light of morning
sears our view and we are left
gasping at nothing
Until only a faint memory of loss remains
© Johnmichael Simon
2012
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